


You Had Me At Hello

by Araceil



Series: Hated You From Hello [3]
Category: Final Fantasy XV, Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: AU collection, Chapter Specific Tags Inside, Drabble Collection, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Side Stories, no betas we die like men
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-10
Updated: 2020-06-19
Packaged: 2020-10-14 05:08:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 18
Words: 118,750
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20595206
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Araceil/pseuds/Araceil
Summary: A collection of oneshot AUs, Alternative scenes, random trope ideas, and what not from my FFXV/HP fic 'Hated You From Hello'.Tags will be featured at the top of each chapter.





	1. Five times from Cor, One time from Regis

**Author's Note:**

> Tags: Cor's POV, Unreliable Narrator, Gay Thirst, slight dubious consent in regards to kissing/making out, child soldiers

It was the guy that attacked him, hurrying away from the Auburnbrie sisters while rubbing his cheek.

“You!” Cor exclaimed in surprise, marching over. Justifications for his interference, a demand for an apology for kicking him in the balls, even an apology of his own, all sat on the tip of his tongue as he crossed the distance between them. He wasn't quite sure which of them he was going to say, that all depended on the hunter.

Who turned around, and suddenly Cor forgot all of it, steps stuttering to a stop.

Those were the the prettiest damn eyes he had ever seen.

His voice stalled in his throat as the _teenager_ faced him properly. They were the same age. They were the _same_ age, and he was tiny. Wild jet black hair, pale sharp features, and those eyes, _wow_, summer leaf green in colour and framed with long black lashes. He wore the blood of his enemies, tough work roughened leathers covered in scratches and mud from hard fighting. His weapons were dented and caked in blood from use and prior kills, and not a single speck of it was his own. Even the way he stood gave him pause, straight backed, chin up, meeting his eyes head on, feet firmly planted. Confident in a way he rarely saw even from his brothers in the army.

“Can I help you?” the boy asked coolly and Cor swallowed at the crystal cut Tenebraean accent, opening his mouth to say.... something. But. _Wow_. No. The first person aside from Regis himself to have ever put him on his ass was not only his own age, but clearly no stranger to hardwork or getting his hands dirty. After so many _years_ of having to fight tooth and nail for even the slightest scrap of respect from men twice his age with half his skill.... He gets dropped by a guy half his height and weight with a face like _that?_ He was pretty sure he'd had some rather X-rated dreams that started along those lines.

And then the boy scoffed, scowling and barging past him when he took too long to answer. “Whatever, if you're too stupid to figure out what you're fucking saying that isn't my problem.”

Looking back.... He could have reacted better.

* * *

Cor stared.

It was hard not to with so much skin on show.

Potter stood up and reached for a shirt, the fading shadows of livid angry bruising fading away under Lady Auburnbrie's care. He had about the same muscle mass as your average alley cat. Lean and wiry, there wasn't an ounce of spare fat on him and Cor could see every muscle shift and move beneath his skin as he grabbed it and began to pull it on. A thin dusting of dark hair trailed up from his trousers to his belly button, a long thin pale scar went across his chest from shoulder to hip, his back completely unmarked save for a strawberry red birthmark a tiny bit to the left of his spine below his shoulderblades.

He swallowed uncomfortably, feeling overly warm, and looked away as Potter spoke to Regis. Only looking back when Regis made a joke about how familiar it was that he didn't like being told what to do. Which, no. He _didn't mind_. He just hated _stupid_ people telling him what to do. Because they always told him to do _stupid_ things.

That shirt was too big for him, he decided inanely in the back of his head somewhere. Potter looked far too deceptively _fragile_ like that. Never mind the fact that the shirt he was wearing could have fit Cor himself, which once he realised put his brain down several other tangents that made his stomach turn pleasantly and his heartrate kick up. He scowled at himself because Potter had the personality of a feral cat, and cute face aside, he didn't _want_ to think about that sort of stuff about him. He was an asshole. And what was he doing in someone else's shirt anyway?!

He might have been a bit snippy and demanding because of it.

And quite rightly he had a wet flannel thrown in his face for it.

Weskham removed him from the room before he could retaliate.

What followed was perhaps the most embarrassing dressing down he'd received to date. _He was **not** interested in Potter like **that!**_

Except he was.

A little.

He slouched in his seat scowling down at the table, ears hot, uncomfortable as Weskham primly read him the war treatise about appropriate behaviour to others, especially when sexually interested in them. And _of course_ he refused to modulate his voice. Which meant Clarus proceeded to choke on his beer, until Cid smacked him on the back and demanded, “Are y'all fuckin' kiddin' me, Rus? Y'all _didn't_ notice?!” as if it were as obvious as the sun in the sky.

Which, apparently, according to them, it really was.

He slouched further in his seat, folding his arms grumpily as Regis and Harry showed up, feeling his ears go hot when the Ulwaat boy sat next to him to talk to Cid, before proceeding to prove himself more than just a pretty face. Economics, manufacture, Cor listened with half an ear and turned away from them, grumpy because he wasn't allowed to talk, so joining in on the conversation wasn't allowed. It wasn't _just_ because there were daemons that had stalled industry out in Lucis proper, it was also education. The plain fact of the matter was, Insomnia had public education. Lucis did not. Schools were rare out here and so was higher education. Many older people didn't even know how to read depending on how far out in the sticks they were. Insomnia had a considerably higher population, and over 98% of them were educated to at least highschool level, meaning that those who _opted_ to go further, and become graduates had their pick of placements and fields of study. And with the war, the big money was in communications and defence. And with the population stuck in what was essentially a large cage, entertainment.

But of course he wasn't allowed to share his thoughts. Even if he thought Potter would find it interesting. He didn't want to risk Weskham locking him in the car the next time they went to do something interesting, or took Regis into a daemon nest.

It wasn't that he didn't _trust_ them to keep him safe – but His Majesty _told_ him to protect his only son and heir.

He didn't want to let his King down.

If he fucked up and Regis got hurt, if he died, the relations between refugees and citizens would sour even further. Right now, he was the only real _tangible_ proof that they could be accepted. He was a public figure in a way that he didn't think the others in the Retinue had figured out yet.

“What do you think?” Potter asked curiously, looking at him, obviously attempting to offer an olive branch.

He grimaced and looked away.

He was going to swap where all of Weskham's knives were in their case for this.

* * *

“Y'all must've been pretty highly ranked before hand,” Cid observed, leaning against the side of Lady Auburnbrie's truck to get a better look at the small haul of accessories that Potter was sorting through. The hunter looked at him in bewilderment. “In yer army,” the old man elaborated as Cor looked between the two.

Potter's face twisted in confused offence. “I'm _fifteen_,” he spluttered, “I'm not old enough to join the army!”

Cor stared at him, “We're the same age, and I am,” he pointed out. True he lied about his age when he signed up for the military, but right now they were both at the right legal age. Just what was Ulwaat's age of enlistment if they thought fifteen was too young?

“Well, what were ye doin' before this?” Cid asked, something like real worry in his tone as he examined the dark haired teenager who was looking increasingly uncomfortable and dismayed.

“I was in school. Like everyone else my age in the country,” he explained stiffly. “It's – minimum age requirement to join the army is eighteen.” So _late?_ “It's _illegal _to – I mean, there's _cadets_, but I don't....” The hunter dragged a hand through his hair looking pained and uncomfortable in a way that immediately made Cor worried. Because – because he was starting to get a bad feeling about all this. When he first mentioned having to stay in Meldacio to wait for his godfather his chief argument was the fact that the man couldn't _fight_, and just now he'd admitted to only being a hunter for _two months_, and being quite successful at it judging by the miniature haul of rewards he had spilled out across the flatbed in front of him. Some of which could be sold for a very pretty gil. But he wasn't in the military. And in fact looked quite uncomfortable with the very concept because of his _age_.

“Were you _ever_ trained?” he asked slowly, studying the boy's pretty face closely.

He scratched at his ear uncomfortably, leaf green eyes flickering between his face and a point just past his shoulder. “You're... gunna have to be more specific,” he requested at length.

Not good.

“Did anyone ever teach you how to use a sword, or a gun?” he asked with rising dread, because if he was right....

“I held a sword when I was twelve once? And killed a giant ass snake?” he _suggested_ more than informed.

It felt like the bottom of his stomach dropped out.

He was a civilian. Not a hunter. But an actual 100% _Insomnian level_ civilian. A school boy. A fucking _school boy_ left in the middle of Cleigne to try and survive without weapons, or glasses, or a clue of where he was with absolutely no training or background in combat. His godfather couldn't fight so clearly the man wouldn't have been able to teach him to defend himself, he had no _style_ – fuck Cor should have seen it before now! He had no _Style_. Nothing was standardised. Not his sword forms, nor even the way he held his pistols!

The fifteen year old sighed and tucked his hunt rewards into his backpack. “It's not a big deal,” he told them calmly, _and completely erroneously._ Even Cid was looking at him in outright horror.

“I beg ter differ,” the old man choked out. “Y'all takin' hunts without knowin' her ass from yer elbow. Yer gunna get yerself killed one'a these days,” he said in dismay.

“Not dead yet,” he pointed out as he got to his feet and swung the backpack on. Cor stared up at him, an impossible figure cut out of the blue sky around him. “I think I can handle it,” he declared before turning and jumping out.

Cor shook his head and folded his arms to hide his clenched fists. “You flail with your sword like you're having a seizure, and you're blind. That's bullshit,” he pointed out sharply. He had no swordschool. Yes he had been getting by so far, but _luck_ could only take you so far! He was a Rank 5 hunter judging by the accessories he had, so he definitely had skill. But his handicaps – from here on out they could very well get him _killed_, especially in unfamiliar surroundings so close to the front lines!

But the dark haired boy only threw a knife-edged smirk over his shoulder, “And yet here I am,” he mused lightly.

Yet there he was.

Fuck.

“Roll yer tongue back in, boy,” Cid grumbled, rubbing his chin looking worried.

Cor flushed and glared at him, “It wasn't out!”

* * *

Harry snatched his hat off his head, pale faced and near frantic. “Get changed, quickly!” he whispered, “Run around in a uniform and they're going to know who you are immediately. _Hurry!_” he hissed even as he turned to check the alleyway they had just come from.

Cor summoned his civilian clothes from the armiger. The hunter had a point, one he hadn't really considered before because he typically _lived_ in his uniforms. They were a lot sturdier and made of specially woven fibres exclusive to the Crownsguard defence support and equipment suppliers, his clothes were more armoured than most Niflheim soldier's so called bullet-proof vests.

Harry paused for a split second, looking him up and down before he dropped to his knees and bent forward.

His heart practically jack-knifed into his throat, his stomach _flipping_ – and Harry untucked his jeans from his boots.

“Shoelaces catch on damn-near fucking everything out in the wild, never tuck yer boots in,” he whispered quickly, voice catching on the edges of Lady Auburnbrie's familiar Cleigne accent. “Don't know what they do in your home, but I've never seen a teenager with his shirt tucked in either,” he added doubtfully even as he reached up to Cor's hips, fingers tugging swiftly at his jeans as he pulled his shirt out from them.

This – he was a mess. He was half hard, sweating like crazy, bright red, and then there was a clatter of guns and boots and he grabbed Harry by the back of his shirt to yank him behind him even as they looked up at the unit of Niffs bearing down on them.

One of them turned back the way they came, “Nothing, sir! Just some handsy teenagers. You two,” he barked, turning back towards them with disgust. “Either keep it in your pants or get a room. Scram!” he barked, gesturing with the muzzle of his gun for them to get gone.

Harry grabbed his hand, “Y-yessir,” he squeaked, his hands shaking and _cold_, nails digging into Cor's flesh as he turned tail and practically dragged him down the other street.

Cor tightened his grip on the hunter's hand, alarm and concern clenching in his chest when he got a good look at the other fifteen year old's face.

He was terrified.

His eyes were wide behind his glasses, pupils dilated to pin-pricks, he had gone chalk white, and cold. And yet, despite all that, he checked every sidestreet, every window and doorway as they ran down the alley to the main plaza where they could see the tipster in the window of his kitchen helping to evacuate people from the street. Harry waited before dragging him to a hiding space and ducking down, his breath shaking ever so slightly as he carefully inhaled and exhaled as if counting.

Part of him was confused, Harry was willing and able to tangle with daemons and fiends five times his size. But guys with guns freaked him out? The other part of him was concerned. Harry was a civilian, hunter rank or not. He wasn't used to these kinds of situations. His plan to get them out of Lestallum was great, flawless even. But it could all fall apart if he panicked.

He tightened his grip a bit and pointed out an older hunter further up who was arguing with a pair of Niffs. Harry looked back at him and nodded, his expression determined as he pointed to where they were going next. They ran. Cor kept a tight grip of his hand and stayed quiet even as they reached the hotel and saw the soldiers in front of it. At least Clarus found a safe place to hole up, and then came Weskham and Cid, playing up the Leidan Red-Neck angle so hard he was surprised Cid was even playing along with it.

They were so close to escaping the city that he could practically taste it. Harry's shaking had lessened with their goal so close that he didn't want to wait, didn't want to pause. He wanted to get them out.

Even if he had to go through the next unit coming into the city.

He reached for Genji through the armiger.

“No!” Harry yelped, whipping around to grab his hand. “No! You'll draw too much attention!” he whispered frantically, looking over his shoulder to the group of men, and then over Cor's shoulder with mounting panic. “We can't fight everyone!” he hissed, tugging on him.

Cor begged to differ. They were only human. And they were dressed for covert ops, no heavy armour or gear. He could absolutely one-hundred percent take them.

“_Cor!_ Please!”

He jerked and snapped his head around to look at him in shock, Harry grabbed his arm and yanked him down a sidestreet, and he went because – because he looked like he was on the verge of breaking. Because of him. _Cor_ was the one making him panic like that. So he shut up and let the hunter pull him out of sight, hide them in someone's narrow far too small porch where they had to stand practically between each other's legs.

“Once we're out of the city, we can just hop the fence at the side of the road,” the smaller teenager whispered, rubbing his arms nervously, pale skin covered in pimples of adrenalin and fear to the point where Cor felt like an even _bigger_ asshole for being the one to put them there – and not even in the fun way that he sometimes dreamed of.

Harry tipped to the side a little, peering out and down the street and then tensed up horribly.

And then he looked up, his face going from stressed to considering for a split second, before something like resignation and determination set his jaw and knitted his eyebrows together.

“Do _not_ stab me for this,” he hissed.

Cor frowned, stab him? What was he -

Hands grabbed his skull and pulled him down, even as Harry reached up and crushed their mouths together.

What

what what what _what what W HAT_

The hunter snarled against his lips, “Do you _want_ to get shot? Stop dicking around and put your fucking back into – ”

Irritation licked his insides, mixing furiously with stress and embarrassment and just about drop of frustration he had felt about this impossible boy and his mouth and his eyes and his hands and hips and _ass. _He shoved him backwards against the wall and kissed the living daylights out of him, digging a hand into that thick black hair he had fantasised over for a week, it was nothing like he expected, coarser and thicker than he thought it would be, even as he used his grip to force Harry's head back. He tasted like exactly nothing but spit and skin because Cor wasn't paying attention to stupid shit like that as he pulled him in tight, wanting to feel every inch of him against him.

The gun was getting in the way. He grunted in annoyance and shoved it down and out of the way, feeling Harry's hands tangling in his shirt as he tried to stand up straight, gasping into his mouth with sounds that should have been fucking illegal.

He gripped Harry's hips and pulled him in close, grinding into him even as he hiked the hunter up one of his thighs, and there were clearly no objections if the way he was leaning into it was any indication. He nuzzled into Harry's neck, kissing and licking at his tendons just to hear the sound of his voice.

Right before they were doused with cold water and the home-owner smacked him in the side of the head with her bucket.

“NOT ON MY DOORSTEP!! NOT ON MY DOORSTEP!!” she shrieked as the two of them scattered like scalded cats.

* * *

It had been a long time since he had seen something so grim. A long long time.

Night had long since fallen when they got out of Crestholm Channels. The border control Crownsguard had deployed swiftly and brought out generators and extra men to hold the area, medical had the two survivors that Harry had found, and there were already engineers and soldiers on the scene to handle the clean-up and reignition of the power. Once the power was back on they could focus on removing the daemons and fixing the rest of the systems.

It wasn't easy coordinating the border control with the more typical Crownsguard, for one, only the Crownsguard would actually listen to him. Border control seemed to hold him with some level of contempt, at least until Clarus put his fucking foot down. But by that point, all the instructions he had were already given out, and unless he was going to take his sword up and go back down there, there was nothing more for Cor to do.

So he took a step back, and then he saw Harry in the distance, just outside the ring of activity, sat on the back of his truck, watching the organised chaos with a dull look on his face. He swallowed a little, and then made his way over after taking a quiet breath.

“You alright?” he asked gently, staring down at the hunter's pale miserable face.

He grimaced into his knees, “No.”

He looked back out over the Crownsguard and the Channels, silent for a moment. “...First time seeing someone dead?” he asked softly.

Harry shook his head, “No. Just.... the first _massacre_ I've ever seen,” he admitted quietly, something complicated in his voice before he squeezed his eyes shut and dragged a hand through his hair with a sigh.

The only way to handle these kinds of situations was to focus on the good.

“The two people you found will live,” he stated. “The lady is awake. She was one of the people at ground zero. They were looking to expand by boring another reservoir so they were taking soil samples and doing sonic imaging of the surroundings when they saw an empty cavity less than a metre away,” he explained, spotting Harry's tired green eyes watching him curiously from the corner of his eye. “As soon as one of the guys knocked on it, the whole wall caved in and a bunch of daemons crawled out. She said she thinks they got trapped in there during a landslide of something.”

Harry's eyes slid shut with something that could have been relief, or could have been heartbreak. Days like this, it was hard to tell.

“As long as they keep the armed guards for the next few weeks to ensure nothing else forms up, they should be fine then,” he muttered. Sound advice that he would be sure to pass on. No one was certain what daemon spawning rates were, but if the hunter was suggesting weeks, then that was what Cor would be passing on.

The hunter tightened his grip on his knees and hunched up unhappily, shivering in the sharp Leidan night air, squeezing his eyes shut and grimacing in unhappiness.

It hurt seeing him like that.

He stripped out of his jacket, well aware of how cold the smaller teenager could get, and dropped it over his shoulders before folding his arms and turning to watch the men working in the distance and refusing to be embarrassed about his actions. There was a long stretch of silence as Harry stared at him with a sad face before he huddled down and drew it around him in silence, hiding his face in his knees again.

He didn't say anything. And it didn't take long before eventually the hunter slowly relaxed, dropping into an exhausted slumber that eventually saw him curled up on the flatbed under Cor's jacket.

* * *

Regis couldn't believe his eyes.

“Wesk!” he hissed, scurrying away from the tent, “Wesk! Have you got your camera? Weskham, you absolutely have to get a picture of this! Look look!” he whispered, grabbing his friend's arm and pulling him over to Kimya's tent. The young women grinning and holding the tent flaps open for them to get a better look.

Weskham paused, blinking, and then covered his mouth with a hand, grinning, “Oh my. Well. Happy Birthday indeed,” he muttered softly.

“I know right?” Regis giggle squeaked, trying to keep his voice down but the absolute glee making it hard.

Cor shifted in his sleep, frowning a little as he pulled Harry a little closer and buried his face into the other teenager's hair. The two were curled up tight, practically suction-cupped to each other with Harry tucked up under the soldier's chin, both of them sleeping soundly. Which, given how it was long past dawn, was _highly_ irregular for Cor who was often up with the sun at the same time as Weskham himself.

Regis flapped his hands eagerly, “Weskham, you must, please,” he practically _begged_ as his Retainer summoned his polaroid camera to hand.

The sound of the shutter, followed by both Regis and Clarus' cackling, woke the pair as Weskham quickly retreated, and Kimya worked to getting the two teenagers out of bed for breakfast.


	2. Tangled Together, You and I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tags: Soulmate AU, Red Thread of Fate, Ezma's A+ Personality
> 
> First meetings go a little differently thanks to a little red thread.

Cor was just one of the many born without a Red Thread.

Just one of the unlucky ones. Or the lucky ones, depending on who you asked.

With twenty percent of the population with an empty hand there were a lot of differing opinions on the subject of soulmates and how easy they were to identify, ranging from positive to negative, with almost everything in-between. Cor didn't particularly care one way or the other, he didn't have a thread, he didn't have a soulmate, and he had spent a great many years aggressively ignoring, or beating the shit, out of those who accused him of not having a soul because of that. Because that was a belief as well. That those who had empty hands also had empty bodies, that they didn't have a soul. He was pitied for having to 'spend his life alone', as if he couldn't find love without a thread, or were incapable of it. Of being admired for his 'freedom', of not being tied down to one person and expected to find his happily ever after with them and never go near anyone else. Of being considered expendable because there was no soulmate to mourn his passing, no one to miss him, usable because he had no one that would require support in his absence.

That was his childhood in a nutshell. His childhood, his pre-teens, his career in the army – and when it all got too much, he ended up being considered too wild, too unstable. Without a soulmate to calm him down, to rein him in, he was considered a wildcard, a mad dog, and pulled from the front lines. The only place where he could reliably take out his disgust and aggression on the enemy instead of the assholes he shared a bunk with. Only King Mors, empty handed like him, had knowing eyes and steady hands when he gave Cor a chance to prove that he was just as good, if not better, and worth so much more than the lack of light wrapped around his little finger. He didn't have a thread, but that didn't mean he was missing anything.

Until suddenly, one day, it felt like his hand was _burning_.

Until suddenly, one day, he had a thread. Vivid scarlet, glowing against his skin, trailing off and fading to nothing, but undeniably there.

Pointing west.

All at once an awful number of mixed feelings filled him even as he was quick to hide his hand from Regis when the Prince crawled into the tent. If His Highness saw the thread, he would immediately drop his Pilgrimage in order to track the person on the other end of it down, and... complicated feelings aside, this journey was not for him. It was for the good of the Kingdom. And Regis, the hopeless romantic that he was, would put it on hold to find Cor the same 'Happily Ever After' that he had with his own soulmate, Aulea, who waited for their return back in Insomnia.

So he kept his hand hidden, out of sight, and dug out a pair of gloves the first chance he got.

* * *

Annoyingly, he wasn't used to keeping his hands covered, or his thread hidden. He got caught.

“Cor – what – _you have a thread?!_” Clarus squawked loudly one evening as they played cards.

Immediately everyone was clustering around him even as he tried to shove his hand under the table out of sight. Far, far too late, as Regis was already pulling it out to get a better look.

“When did this happen?” Weskham asked in shock as they stared down at the little glowing scarlet thread attached to Cor's little finger, pointing North-North-West, towards Cleigne's unpopulated jungle mountains.

He squirmed uncomfortably as Regis pulled a map and a compass out and began to excitedly plot a line to where his soulmate might possibly be, never once considering the implications of a thread forming so late in life. Even those people who were born _decades_ before their soulmates were born with threads, bright healthy and red, but unlinked, just a little red ring on their finger that hadn't yet been tied off.

Until two weeks ago, Cor didn't _have_ a ring, or a thread, or anything at all. He was Empty Handed.

And now he wasn't.

“About two weeks ago,” he muttered quietly.

“Y'all kept this quiet fer two weeks?” Cid demanded, sounding hurt.

He squirmed, “I – this trip was too important. I knew – Regis would want to find them and we – don't – we don't have the time...” he muttered shamefully. This trip wasn't _about_ him. They had much more important things to do than go chasing after _his_ soulmate.

Clarus clapped him upside the head. “Idiot punk. For this we have time. Jeez kid. Soulmates are _worth_ it,” he scoffed, longing and jealousy plain on his face as much as his empty hand. Now the only one in the Retinue without. Cid's pointed back to Insomnia along with Regis' where his wife was in charge of the housekeeping staff at the Citadel. Weskham's pointing Soul-South-East, directly at Accordo and Altissia specifically. Cor gave him a pained look and the Shield snorted in fond amusement and sadness, ruffling his hair, “Don't hold back on my account, punk,” he muttered.

“Meldacio,” Regis declared, looking up at them with a grin. “Cor's soulmate is in Meldacio Hunter HQ.”

* * *

They say that you'll know who your soulmate is at first sight.

They're right.

Cor knew who it was before they even stopped the car, he didn't even need to see the thread that visibly connected the two of them together.

It was a boy, small and thin, sat up to a plastic table in an open care restaurant with an older teenager. A disassembled gum in front of him, the older boy, clearly a hunter, talking him through the cleaning and assembly of it. He had thick wild jet black hair, pale sharp features, the slight shadow of a bruise on his jaw, and the prettiest damn eyes he had ever seen, and he wasn't just saying that because this was his soulmate. They really were stunning. Summer leaf green in colour with long black lashes.

He hadn't noticed Cor yet, too busy listening to the older teenager who showed him carefully how to assemble the gun, nodding slowly, before it was disassembled again and laid out for him to try himself. He had small, bird-like hands, but they were deft if slow in putting everything back together, properly, carefully. The older teenager nodded and said something encouraging that had his soulmate nodding before disassembling the gun again with much more certainty and speed than before.

The older boy suddenly caught his hand, turning it over with a startled look on his face, the glowing red thread stretching out and away from them visibly straight to the Regalia, to Cor, sat frozen between Regis and Clarus, watching them through the windows.

“He's cute,” the Shield said in the silence.

Regis gave him an encouraging smile, “He looks a little confused. Perhaps his thread didn't show up until recently as well? Come, let us go and introduce ourselves properly,” he suggested kindly, patting Cor's knee before pushing the door open to climb out as the two at the restaurant got to their feet, the larger of them propelling the dark haired boy forward despite his obvious confusion.

Cor swallowed against his dry throat as he climbed out, watching the dark haired boy carefully as his leaf green eyes flickered over them all, going back to him time and again. He was so small. And thin. He could wrap a single hand around both of his wrists, he realised with a small lurch in the pit of his stomach.

Regis was right. He looked confused. And more than a little out of his depth as they finally came to a stop and the taller boy put a hand on his shoulder, smiling stiffly at them. “Evenin' gentlemen,” he greeted with a thick Cleigne accent, practically looming over the shorter boy's shoulder, built rather a lot like Clarus, inches both taller and wider than Cor, and obviously protective of the darker haired boy. “I take it yer here 'bout th'thread?” he asked plainly.

“Indeed,” Regis agreed with a charming smile, his political one. “Please, allow me to introduce ourselves. I am Regis Lucis Caelum,” immediately the teenager straightened up, surprise and awe washing across his face, “this is my Shield, Clarus Amacitia; my Retainer, Weskham Amaugh; my Mechanic, Cid Sophiar; and my bodyguard, Cor Leonis,” he introduced, gesturing to each of them in turn before taking a slight step to the side so the youngest of their group could be seen properly.

The older teenager nodded slowly, looking between the two youngsters present, “...I'm Dave Auburnbrie. My ma is th'one in charge 'round these parts. This is Harry Potter, m'Aunt's charge,” he introduced carefully at length, as Harry and Cor studied each other, the former with slight suspicion and bewilderment, the latter shyly, almost hungrily. “Shall we, err, take this inside?” he suggested, “Or would ya like t'sit?” he asked, gesturing to the seats around them and the incredibly interested tipster looking between the two teenagers and their very clear glowing red thread.

Actually, Cor went a bit pink, realising that a _lot_ of people were looking at them with varying expressions of interest and glee.

“Inside please,” he muttered. This was not a fucking entertainment spectacle.

* * *

Of the Auburnbries', only young Dave had a red thread, and his pointed just a little bit north of Insomnia to the Galahd region, much too far away for him to go and visit at his current age. The sisters took the introduction of the Retinue with remarkable aplomb, remarking that they had been hoping that a member of the Royal Family would drop by eventually. The reveal of the thread connecting Harry and Cor, not so much.

“If ya want 'im so bad, take 'im,” Ezma Auburnbrie declared plainly from her armchair. “Boy's a halfwit waste a'resources I can't afford t'have kickin' around doin' nawt.”

The stung look on his face and the expressions of both her sister and her son indicated that there was a vastly different story, but that was the exact moment that Harry spoke for the first time since they drove up.

“I can't leave,” he refused, the clear cut Tenebraean accent stopping them all in their tracks as he glowered down at Ezma. “I need to stay so Sirius can find me.”

“Yer soulmate has come t'pick ya up. If ya want t'wait fer yer godfather, ya can do it somewhere else, an' not under my roof,” Ezma declared coldly as she stood up, managing to tower over the fifteen year old despite only being a handful of inches taller. “I took ya in because ya had nowhere else t'go. An' now ya do. _Get out of my damn house a'fore I throw ya out_.”

“Madam Auburnbrie – ” Regis attempted to interrupt only for the teenager in question to turn on heel and stalk out of the house, thin lipped and pale faced with his fists clenched at his sides.

Ezma retook her seat in the stunned silence that followed, crossing her legs and peering down her nose at them. “Th' boy'll go with ya now he ain't got a roof over his head. He might not know his ass from his elbow, but he ain't a moron 'bout savin' his own skin,” she scoffed.

Cor felt sick with a strange mixture of anger, confusion, and disbelief. “Are you completely insane?” he heard himself asking from far away even as he shoved himself away from the wall and left the house before she could answer, before he did something like draw a sword and demand a duel. Like the actual fuck he would be in any way okay with her _forcing_ his soulmate to come with them because he had nowhere else to go, how _dare_ she?!

He cast around for a minute, trying to spot him, only to recall the thread and want to hit himself before following it to where he was talking to the tipster back in the open air restaurant.

“ – free labour in exchange for room and board?” he was asking, arms folded, as he looked up to the tipster.

The old man was rubbing his chin, looking thoughtful, and a bit doubtful. “Well, we'd love t'have ya Harry. Yer a mighty hard worker, an' ya know yer stuff. But, surely you'd rather go with yer soulmate, right?” he asked pointedly, not quite looking at Cor over the shorter teenager's shoulder, but definitely aware of him all the same.

Harry was quiet for a moment before looking down.

“I don't – I – he's a _complete stranger_,” he pointed out, sounding stressed. “Why is everyone trying to force me to choose between a complete stranger and my godfather?” he demanded disbelievingly, his voice catching.

The tipster shook his head and reached out to lay a hand on the teenager's shoulder, only to stop and pull back. “Ain't no one tryin' t'make ya choose, kiddo. But soulmates are special, they're gifts from th'Astrals. Ain't no one gunna match you like they can. It's like findin' th'other half of herself,” the man explained kindly, throwing a soppy look to the woman manning the grills behind him as he hummed along to the radio, their red threads bright and joining the two of them together firmly.

“And as soon as Sirius finds me, I'll never see him again. Ever. And I can't _not_ go home. And he won't be allowed to come _with_ me,” he explained harshly, slumping with a heavy sigh.

“What makes you say that?” he found himself asking, causing the tipster to quietly step away from the conversation, and Harry to practically jump out of his skin and whip around.

“What?!” he blurted, startled.

Cor gestured to one of the tables and sat down. “What makes you say I won't be allowed to come with you?” he asked quietly. Having seen what happened in the house with Auburnbrie, he was extra careful to keep any and all tones of accusation or defensiveness out of his voice, he got the feeling that his soulmate was probably hypersensitive to it by this point, and he didn't want to make this situation even more stressful for him. Afterall, it was thanks to Cor that he was now _homeless_. And god, his blood burned at the thought of it.

Harry glanced at the tipster with a conflicted look on his face, but the man was already serving a pair of hunters that had just come over. He pressed his lip together reluctantly, bit sat opposite, and Cor tried not to notice how his clothes were too big, obviously belonging to Dave judging by the side, and how they gaped wide around his neck, showing off his collarbones and the teasing edge of a car at his shoulder. To their left the pair of hunters sat down and started off an innocuous conversation about fishing in the Vesper, all the while their eyes flickering to them every now and again with blatant interest and amusement. He fought not to scowl at them. Yes, the first meeting between soulmates was cute/interesting/entertaining, but fuck off, this was _sensitive? _And _private?_

“There are.... laws about outsiders for a start,” Harry admitted quietly with an awkward shrug as he rubbed his hands together between his knees. “We've been in hiding for such a long time that – the punishment for telling non...citizens anything is heavy. Then there's the fact that same-sex couples are illegal – ” Cor choked, and the conversation at the next table _hiccuped_.

“That's – illegal?” he echoed in disbelief. “But you can't _change_ who your soulmate is!”

Harry shrugged a shoulder, “We don't have threads at home,” he admitted calmly. “None of the Astrals bother with us, so we don't bother with them. Until I crashed in the Vesperpool two and a half weeks ago, I'd never even heard of a red thread,” he admitted, spreading his hands out in front of him, his red thread wrapped and tangled tightly around his little finger as though the gods were afraid he would find a way to wriggle free of it. “Soulmates are considered myths, the stuff of fiction and silly romance novels. Nice in theory, impossible in practice.”

“And... I take it you're not a fan?” he asked carefully, trying not to let any of his disappointment show. His grandfather had been very thorough in explaining things to him as a child so he would know how to help his friends, or his children in the future. Sometimes soulmates didn't work out. Sometimes you could be the best of friends, sometimes the most passionate of lovers, or the most bitter of enemies and rivals. Your soulmate was your other-half, and sometimes, it was your better one, others, your worse. It all depended on who you were as a person. There had been siblings who were soulmates of each other, it was more common in twins, but familial soulmates were a thing as well. So, he was well aware that sometimes.... sometimes it just didn't work out. It didn't make it any less disappointing when he had suddenly received a thread, found it attached to someone so lovely to look at, only to find that they....

Harry looked over at him with something complicated on his face, silent for a moment.

“I'm sorry,” he finally said. “I don't – I don't know what you expected, but I'm sorry that I'm obviously not it. But I can't – I can't change the fact that I have to go home, or that you won't be able to come with me.” He looked away, his expression darkening into something thoroughly miserable and bitter. “Ignoring what the Ministry would do, it's just too dangerous anyway.”

“Dangerous? In what way?” he asked, straightening up, making the dark haired boy look at him sharply but not say anything. “In what way?” he prompted firmly, “I'm the personal bodyguard for His Royal Majesty King Mors, and currently attached to His Royal Highness Prince Regis,” he pointed out flatly as he summoned a notebook and pen to hand. “If you're in danger, the least I can do is advise you if I can't come – ”

He cut himself off, seeing the look of outright alarm on Harry's face as he looked between the notebook, his face, and then, glanced fearfully at the other hunters who were still pretending that they weren't listening in, and then the tipster before looking back at him in disbelief.

“What is it?” Cor asked warily.

“You have magic too?” he practically whispered, leaning forward in his seat.

“_Too?_” Cor echoed. That – what?

Harry nodded, and then, angling his body so it wouldn't be seen, pooled pure white light into the palm of his hand.

* * *

The Regalia was a tight fit for the five of them, no one could exactly be called particularly small, and Clarus had a bad habit of spreading his legs out.

It was tighter still with six, but Harry was small, and Cor had absolutely no problem with having him sat on his lap.


	3. Little Feet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tags: Solheim tech shenanigans, kid!fic (kinda), mentioned child abuse and neglect, abominable cuteness.
> 
> The Retinue accidentally activate a Solheim research experiment into the Fountain of Youth with some unexpected, and adorable, results.

The surprise ruin was found while hiking to the north just beyond Daurell Caverns, built within the base of the great serpentine arches that gave Duscae such a unique silhouette. Cor had been the one to spot it in the distance as they explored in the hopes of maybe finding another Royal Tomb hidden away in the resource rich Schier Heights that Lucis had claimed many generations ago.

Once inside though, it looked less like a temple, and more like some kind of research lab. At least to Harry who was used to cauldrons, and jars, and cupboards, and carvings across the stone. It reminded him an awful lot of Snape's office as they carefully explored the rooms, slaying daemons as they passed, going down winding staircases and passing all sorts of wall carvings leading them down, and down, and down again, and finally into a harrow dark room with what looked like stone computer monitors from those old Hollywood movies.

“What do you think?” Clarus asked as they spread out through the room, everything covered in dust and utterly devoid of daemons. Eerily so.

Harry shook his head, “I need some more light,” he muttered, digging out a few glow-sticks and cracking them over a knee, shaking the fluid until he had enough illumination to read the console. “....Something about time,” he decided after a while of reading. He blew at the dust and used a hand to try and wipe some of the more stubborn clumps away.

As soon as his hand touched the console, bloody red light lit up from the runes and washed through the room in a vivid angry wave.

“What's going on?!” Regis yelped, summoning a weapon as he skipped away from the bloody floor carvings to stand back to back with Weskham.

“I don't – I'm not sure!” Harry admitted, alarmed, as he tried to read the runes even as the air began to hum. “It says something about time. About – about going backwards? I don't recognise the verb! The particle is a possessive and I don't – energy maybe? This one is the word for the mind but they've got a terminology that's only ever used for the _physical_ body!” he explained, panicked now as the humming began to reach a pitch and the console in front of him got brighter.

Cor took a step forward – and looked down as they _all_ heard the flick of something move.

Harry whipped around, the circular plate beneath the Insomnian's foot, formerly dark and dull, now menacing scarlet.

He lunged forward, something dropping from the ceiling in the corner of his eye – he shoved Cor backwards, and yelled as whatever came down from the ceiling slammed into his forearms, staggering him down to the floor where he smashed his head into something, falling to his knees as all the lights went out, and then everything went

**red**

* * *

“Harry!”

“Get the lights!”

“Harry are you alright?!”

Everything was pitch black until – they got their chest lights going, filling the chamber with thin white light as they scrambled forward and – stared in complete disbelief.

Green eyes stared up at them in confusion.

“Oh.... Six....” Weskham murmured faintly, staring down at the _four year old_ who stared up at them from within a glass tube.

“Harry?” Regis asked hesitantly, kneeling down in front of the child who drew back and eyed them with fearful suspicion before nodding hesitantly. This.... oh dear.

He was four. Absolutely _tiny_. Thin doll-like limbs, scruffy wild jet black hair even more untamed than when he was a teenager, familiar summer leaf green eyes, a pair of bulky black second hand glasses held together with sellotape perched on a tiny button nose, overlarge second hand _rags_ for clothing, skinned knees, bruises, and a grimy bandage around his right forearm. And he looked at them with a complete lack of recognition.

The Retinue all exchanged looks of dismay.

“Cor? Could you – look at those consoles?” Regis asked faintly, looking up at the teenager who was staring down at his crush with a completely bewildered expression of dismay and disbelief. “With Harry, erm,” he looked at the child who was peering between them with large eyes, “like this. You're the closest we have to a linguistics expert.”

“.....Right,” he finally managed to get out even as he offered the child a slightly awkward attempt at a reassuring smile. He got a suspicious little scowl in return that had no right to be as cute as it was. Regis coughed into his fist to hide his grin as he saw the very real smile that Cor was quick to turn away and hide before hurrying to the consoles. Harry glowered suspiciously at his back before turning his frown onto Regis, still looking very scared, but also as if he were more than killing to give him a swift kick and run away as well. Some things never changed evidently.

“Hi Harry. I'm Regis. You can call me Reggie if you'd like,” he introduced with as charming a smile as he could muster. “These are my friends, Clarus, Weskham, and Cid. The boy behind you is Cor,” he said, gesturing to them all. The little boy squinted at them through his glasses with a scowl before examining the room around them with pressed lips. But he didn't say anything, or ask any questions either. Regis wasn't sure if that was a good thing or a bad one. “I know this must be scary, ending up in a strange place with strange people. We're not going to hurt you, absolutely not, on my honour and my mother's grave. But this _is_ a dangerous place,” he explained gently as the little boy looked up at him with a frown. “I'm going to get you out of there, but you have to promise not to run away, right? There's all sorts of monsters outside this room, and we don't want you to get hurt.”

The boy gave him a dirty look, glanced at everyone else, and then nodded slowly. “Okay,” he agreed with obvious reluctance. And _Six_, he sounded so _adorable_. Regis beamed and gestured at Clarus to help him get the large glass tube up. It wasn't hard, it had mechanisms attaching it to the ceiling that were designed to lift it up and down, but without any power they were useless. And no matter how many times Cor touched the consoles, they refused to light up again, meaning the place had completely run out of juice when it did.... whatever it did to make Harry pocket sized.

The child drawled out and gave them all a highly suspicious scowl before glancing to the door leading out. Thank god for Cid, who promptly stepped in front of it with a knowing smirk that caused the four year old to give him a terrible stink-eye.

* * *

“Age regression,” Cor announced after far too long spent reading runes, scowling, rubbing his head, and consulting the notes he had of the language that Harry had been helping him learn. “That was the verb he didn't know. Looks like they were trying to create a 'Fountain of Youth', reversing the physical energy of time while preserving the mind as it was. They just never figured out how to do that. Or get it to last,” he added with a glance down at Harry who was sat on the floor with a granola bar, playing snap with Cid.

“Last?” Weskham echoed thoughtfully, his voice tinged with relief.

Cor nodded, “The less time he regressed by, the shorter the amount of time he's going to remain as he is. Half a day for every year judging by the calculations. So, about six days, give or take,” he explained as Cid called snap and tried to put his hand down – only for Harry's little fingers to snap out and slam down on the pile of cards, winning the round. It.... took a few rounds and a very careful explanation before he would play properly, they had to tell him that he was actually _allowed_ to win the game if he wanted to. At first he hadn't even wanted to call snap or even try catching the cards at all. That was when they learned that his cousin would slam his fist down on top of his fingers if he won, and his Aunt would accusing him of cheating and punish him. That had.... been hard for Cid to deal with. They hadn't been able to hear what the child whispered, but they definitely saw the way the old geezer's face went murderous for a split second before he forced a slightly manic smile onto his face and told him that he was allowed to play because those things were against the rules of Lucian Snap.

Once assured he was allowed to win, that there would be no crushing of hands, Cid hadn't managed to win a hand since. The little gremlin child had lightning fast hands and an eye for patterns and colour. At first he thought to let the child win a few rounds to reassure him but then realised that he was never ever going to actually win now that he had allowed the child to do so. The fact that Harry was now grinning though meant he didn't mind.

“He's going to be pocket sized for six days?” Clarus asked curiously from where he had been leaning against the doorway to make sure no daemons came down their way, glancing at the child as he gathered his cards and carefully began to pat them back into a neat little stack.

Cor nodded.

* * *

Cid was the one to carry Harry out. The little boy only had to see a daemon once before he turned and buried his face in the old man's neck, going absolutely still and silent, clinging tightly and trying not to get in the way or break their concentration as they fought their way out. Worse still, it was dark when they finally stepped outside, and the nearest haven was a few miles away.

“Yer bein' real good. A real brave boy there Harry. Think y'all can hold on a lil' while longer?” Cid asked, rubbing a hand up and down the child's back, receiving a jerky nod but not a single word. He glanced over to the rest of the Retinue with a nod and they started running, pelting fullspeed down the deer path that lead them to the ruin – predictably, daemons did spawn. But they didn't wait around for them and just kept running.

Running until they reached the car, passed it, and up onto the opposite side of the road where they could see a thin ribbon of glowing blue smoke to identify the haven they were aiming for.

“We're here. Safe an' sound,” Cid declared happily, rubbing Harry's back. “Think y'all can do with Cor fer a bit while I help set up camp, lil' man?” he asked, shifting so he could peer down at the child's face properly.

The four year old slowly sat up straight to look around carefully, giving the campsite a dubious look before his eyes went wide at the sight of the glowing rocks. Cid grinned at him and then carefully extracted the child's limbs and handed him over to Cor where the sixteen year old propped him up against a hip. Then he went to go and help Weskham set up the stove and help him get some food going that a four year old would actually be willing to _eat_. No offence to Wesk, but the majority of what he cooked up was far too fancy for a child.

Cor eyed his young charge in amusement as the four year old gave him a suspicious flower. He would have thought it hard to believe that something so small and abominably cute would grow up to be become what he did, but it was only too easy to see with the way he wrinkled his nose and squinted at him.

He chuckled a little, “Shall we sit over here, out of the way?” he suggested, nodding to a little out of the way chunk of rock where they could still see everything that was going on, but not be in the way. Harry eyed it and eventually nodding a little, staying still and quiet as Cor carried him over and sat down, carefully shifting him to sit comfortably in his lap and not on the cold stone. They watched the rest of the Retinue working in silence, at least until he noticed the child fidgeting, fiddling with his fingers and glancing between everyone and his hands. Cor shifted slightly, making the child's head snap around to look at him.

“Are you alright Harry? Do you need to pee?” he asked calmly, internally panicking a little because – helping a drunk squadmate take a piss was one thing... helping a four year old probably was no different, easier given the size actually, but the four year old version of his crush whom he was actually quite eager to see without trousers was a very different animal and one he was entirely uncomfortable with the very concept of.

Thankfully he shook his head and looked down at his hands nervously.

Cor frowned at him, “If you don't ask, I won't know how to answer, Harry,” he pointed out gently. “It's fine. What do you want to know?” he encouraged gently.

“Not a'post t'ask questions,” the four year old admitted quietly, as if he were sharing a secret that he wasn't supposed to tell. Cor had to close his eyes briefly against the sick swooping feeling in the pit of his stomach.

“You're allowed to ask me whatever questions you want, Harry. I'm not a grown up,” he said, his voice far steadier than he thought it would have been. “You can ask any one of us any questions. Reggie is a Prince so you're allowed to ask him because he's a Prince and he needs to know everything. If he can't answer the question then he needs to go and study so he can answer it properly when he's a King. So asking him things is helpful. You can ask Clarus questions too because he's – going to be a policeman.” That was what Harry compared the Crownsguard to, right? When they were talking about law enforcement over dinner that night. “And you can ask Weskham questions because he's a teacher. He's supposed to teach Reggie all the things he needs to know to be King, so if Reggie doesn't know the answer, Weskham will. And you can ask Cid questions too because he's a Dad, and Dad's _have_ to answer questions. It's in the Law,” he promised, and lied a little bit at the end but really.

Harry gave him a sceptical look. “No it isn't.”

Cor nodded solemnly. “Oh yes it is,” he declared, hiding a smile as the little boy shook his head, scowling.

“No it isn't!”

“Oh yes it is.”

“No!”

“Yes.”

“Nooo!”

“Yep.”

Cor grinned as Harry huffed and continued to argue, little face scrunched up furiously. He was so cute.

“What are you two arguing over?” Regis asked with a chuckle and a grin as he came over.

“He said Dad's have to answer questions because it's the law! He's wrong!” Harry exclaimed pointing at Cor who grinned absolutely shamelessly up at Regis behind the child's back.

The Prince's lips wobbled ever so slightly as he fought off a laugh and nodded solemnly, “He's quite right Harry. In Lucis all Dad's have to answer the questions that children ask them.”

The four year old scowled furiously, “Noo! That's not true!!”

Too cute.

* * *

Unlike teenaged Harry, baby Harry was up with the sun and already helping Weskham with making breakfast when the others peeled themselves out of their sleeping bags to face the day. His little face screwed up in concentration as he stirred the breakfast pot under Weskham's hawk-like eyes. The previous night had been.... very not fun.

Weskham had decided that after they'd eaten it was time for certain little people to go to bed, but first, his clothes not only needed a wash, but his bandage needed to be changed. Look at it, it was filthy. None of them anticipated the tears that erupted when they told the child to take his clothes off. It took almost forty five minutes of frantic reassurances and talking before he would stop crying and consent to let them clean everything, and a lot of promises that he would get his clothes back and no, no one was going to be angry about his arm, of course not.

That was really put to the test when the bandages came off and revealed horrible raw, infected grease burns up his arm. Burns that made Cor's stomach twist and flip as he recalled being down in that hole with Harry at Galdin Quay talking about their scars, and Harry told him about being pushed while cooking breakfast and splashing himself with oil.

Then came the reveal that magic was apparently a forbidden word in the house, and anyone who said it would get spanked because it didn't exist and only freaks and crazy people believed in magic. It had been a bit eye opening for everyone, but they managed to calm Harry down and get his permission to prove that magic existed by using a magic potion to heal his arm. The scars remained, and they were horrible to look at, but the infection vanished and he seemed absolutely thrilled that his arm didn't hurt anymore, which left Cid having to chug what remained of his beer before 'casually' suggesting that Harry come with him and Weskham to wash his clothes so he could make extra sure that no one threw them out.

As soon as they were out of sight, Clarus launched his beer can at a tree so hard it exploded.

Bedtime was easier.

There was no space to lay out another bed side them, and they didn't exactly have an extra sleeping bag either. However, if Clarus didn't mind shifting to the outside of the line, it would leave enough headspace to set up a kind of nest of blankets and jackets above them. Beforehand, harry had his own tent that he was willing to share with whomever wanted a little more space to stretch out – often Cor, Regis, or Weskham. Clarus still maintained a distance out of respect for Harry's personal comfort given their history, and Cid snored like an engine and knew it.

Baby Harry had no problem sleeping in the offering of blankets and coats, he was asleep before the rest of them had even finished getting changed for bed.

He sucked his thumb while he slept.

Cid chuckled and gently tried to tug it out only for sleepy green eyes to open and the child to practically bury himself in coats to escape him.

A light sleeper, unlike his teenaged self.

* * *

Lestallum was bright and interesting and after a very interesting car journey where _at first_ Harry was very well behaved, sat quietly on Regis' lap. But the more they passed interesting things, the more excited he became, to the point where he was crawling from lap to lap in the backseat in order to see everything on either side, much to the amusement of everyone present. In Lestallum though, he stuck very close to them, to the point where they were nearly _tripping_ on him, at least until Cor took his hand and moved to the middle of the group where they could all keep a better eye on him.

The number of women who stopped to coo at them, who seemed to think that Harry was Regis' son or younger brother which – okay, yes, the resemblance was somewhat uncanny like this.

The market was busy and hot and they got separated from the group remarkably quickly. But Cor kept a tight grip on Harry's hand and politely brushed off any and all men and woman that tried to talk to him. Then he saw the little trinket shop and looked down at the child, before looking back up at the stall.

Sure it might only be for six days, but......

He scooped the four year old up and headed over. “What do you think, Harry? Do you see any that you like?” he asked, shifting his grip so the child could get a better look at the man's wares. At the collection of cactaur statues, stuffed toys, plastic figurines, and other bright trinkets and doodads.

He half expected him to go for the cactaur statuette, but no.

His eyes immediately went to the soft yellow chocobo ragdroll. He didn't say anything, but the way his grip tightened on Cor's shirt, and the way his eyes went wide, more than told him which toy had garnered so much interest.

The others were going to tease him like crazy for this, but... it was barely a hundred and fifty gil, and he was clearly absolutely enchanted by it. They'd spent more money on _dinner_. And if it made Harry smile, then... he was more than willing to pay for it, handing over the money and collecting the chocobo from the grinning vendor before passing it up to the little boy who stared at it in awed silence with stars in his eyes.

He looked at Cor carefully as he reached out, obviously expecting him to pull it away, but when it was gently nudged into his hands, when he was allowed to grasp the soft suede-like yellow fabric and nothing happened, he made a quiet nosie and hugged it tightly to himself before burying his face in the side of Cor's neck, hugging him with his other arm.

“Thank you,” he mumbled quietly, hiding his face in the yellow fabric.

“You're welcome Harry.”

If his kids were anywhere near this cute, then there was no way in hell Cor was ever going to be able to say no to them. RIP wallet and bank balance.

* * *

Cor didn't know an awful lot about children, but he was _fairly_ sure kids still needed to take afternoon naps at four. So when Harry started showing signs of flagging, he was quick to find them a quiet out of the way bench to settle down on to wait for the others, and for Harry to inevitably fall asleep on. Which he did. Clutching his chocobo tightly in one arm, thumb in his mouth, and Cor with his other.

Weskham chuckled when he found them. “Well, isn't that adorable,” he declared softly so as not to wake the child.

Cor stroked his hair with a small smile, “yeah.”

He twitched when he heard the sound of a camera and glared up at the Retainer as he cheerfully tucked his Polaroid away, comfortable with the knowledge that the soldier couldn't retaliate with a lapful of sleeping toddler.

* * *

Despite Regis' best efforts, Cid had put his foot down while on their little shopping excursion. Harry would only be knee-high for six days, they did not _need_ to purchase him an entire wardrobe of clothes, shoes, toys, and books. Put your bankcard down, Regis! Think about how he's going to feel when he's back to his usual self, idiot man.

But things managed to sneak in anyway. A decent pair of little shoes for a start. A spare change of clothes. A book of Lucian fairytales to be read at bedtime. And none of them could resist the moogle poncho when they saw it. Not with the little wings and the bright red pompom between the cat-like ears.

Giving them to the child however, was traumatising for everyone.

He took one look at everything and burst into tears, horrifying the Retinue as he turned and buried his face into Cor's shoulder, practically strangling his chocobo. It took a while for the tears to run their course, during which they learned that it was a simple case of being overwhelmed because _all of that_ was for _him?_ At which point Cid had to physically leave the room in search of something heavily alcoholic to calm his nerves – Clarus wasn't far behind when he heard the four year old sob out that he was a Freak and Freaks get what they're given and he's _never_ had anything new, ever, and how was he going to pay for this? They didn't _have_ a house he had to clean, or a garden to weed, and Mister Weskham wouldn't let him cook. Please don't take his toy away, he'll find something to do, he'll pay for it. Somehow.

If he hadn't had a lap of crying four year old, he would have left to break something. As it was, he got front row seats to the most fury he had ever seen on Weskham's face, ever, and Regis on the verge of summoning Astrals out of sheer rage. He pushed the thought aside and concentrated on assuring Harry that he didn't have to pay for any of it, only to have a choked sob and a shake of his head say otherwise. It only made him cry harder.

Regis knelt in front of them, “If you feel that strongly about it, Harry, then I have a very important job that only you can do, if you want to pay us back,” he said solemnly, making the child hiccup and stop crying, peering at him with wide wet eyes and blotchy pink cheeks as he sniffed. It was criminally adorable but Cor couldn't even muster a smile at the sight of it. “It's a very important job, Harry. Are you ready? I need _you_ to keep Cor out of trouble.”

“Oi,” he grunted, unable to stop himself from frowning at his prince, slightly offended despite himself.

“Cor is very good at fighting. But he doesn't believe it sometimes,” Regis explained, not looking away from Harry's wet eyes. “So he'll go and he'll find a big scary monster and he'll pick a fight with it. I want you to stay with Cor and tell him off if he tries to do that. Can you do that for me, Harry? He won't go near any scary monsters if you're with him, so you're the _only_ one I can trust to do this for me.”

Harry considered his words carefully, looking down at his chocobo ragdoll and then back up at Cor with a frown on his face.

“Fighting is bad,” he eventually agreed. And, Six help him, he then reached up to put a hand on Cor's cheek and point at him, “You shouldn't fight. No. It's bad.”

He grimaced, looking away from earnest green eyes, “Okay, okay. I'll... I'll be good,” he muttered, pulling a face when he saw the grin on Regis' face, and the camera in Weskham's hands as Harry patted his head and called him a good boy.

* * *

No one was particularly keen on leaving Lestallum with Harry being as he was, but with the rumours that the Prince was out and about with his _son_ now kicking around, no one wanted to run the risk of Niflheim descending upon them again, especially with a four year old in hand. So they left first thing in the morning after breakfast and decided to go and visit Keycatrich, which was considerably more secure against any Imperial interest.

They stopped off briefly to eat at the Coernix station in Aster Clough, and Harry got to meet his first real life chocobo while the Retinue did a little shopping.

Everyone just about died of cuteness when the four year old saw the catoblpas in the distance and immediately grabbed Cor's hand and told him loudly that he w\asn't allowed to go and fight them, which, given the moogle poncho and the little pompom bouncing as he shook his head and glared up at him..... Cor promised not to go near them, unable to say _anything_ else much to the hilarity of the others.

“Can we keep him like this?” Clarus asked quietly with a wild grin.

“He _does_ make a most effective leash for Cor's more destructive impulses,” Weskham agreed mirthfully, no doubt remembering the first time they passed through and the night where Cor and Clarus got bored and competitive and he left in the night to go and pick a fight with one of the titanic herbivores. It nearly _killed _him, but he succeeded. He killed it, and was nearly crushed UNDER it – which no one in the Retinue was ever going to let him live down.

“Reggie might jest adopt 'im iffin' 'e don't change back,” Cid chimed in with a smirk. “'e'll 'ave a fight on 'is hands though,” he promised with a grin at the alarmed look he received from the Prince.

“No! You wouldn't old man!” he exclaimed before darting forward and scooping both Cor and Harry up into his arms and sticking his tongue out at the mechanic. “They're mine and you can't have them!”

Cid took a page out of Cor's book and bounced an orange off his forehead in response.

* * *

Mid and Melba were ecstatic to welcome them, confused by the change to Harry, but rolling with it none the less. Harry meanwhile went over-shy, and was not very keep to get anywhere near Melba or her sister Alba even though he was fascinated by baby Carole. Layla the cat didn't seem to know what to make of him now, eyeing Cor and then him as if deciding if she wanted to get anywhere near the Insomnian in order to explore the little boy. Harry just had to goo at her the once and the cat was butting up against his fingers though, Cor completely disregarded in favour of sniffing and investigating Harry as closely as possible while the child petted and stroked her head and back with expert hands. Confiding in them that Missus Figg had a lot of cats, whoever she was.

He was less keen on the dogs, giving a little scream and yanking his legs up and away from them when they rushed out of the kitchen to investigate. He didn't take his eyes off them once, and maintained a strangle grip on his chocobo, ready to run at a moment's notice until they were once again shut up behind the baby-gate in the kitchen. Only then did he relax even a little bit.

“Are you afraid of dogs?” Cor asked quietly while they sat in the back garden where Harry could get to the table in order to draw on a few sheets of paper. He had been incredibly well behaved, but obviously bored once the initial terror regarding the dogs had passed. He hadn't been loud, or destructive, but he had obviously been bored out of his cute little skull. So Cor took him outside to quietly distract him.

Harry scowled and shook his head. “No!” he snapped quickly, “I am not!”

He arched an eyebrow and leaned back, “It's okay if you are,” he pointed out softly. “You're allowed to be scared of dogs. I'm scared of small spaces,” he admitted, watching as little green eyes went wide. “I'm scared I'll get stuck and squished.”

He mulled it over thoughtfully, “You _are_ very big,” he admitted after a while. “I like small spaces,” he said turning his attention back to his drawing. “If I scrunch down really really small, Uncle Vernon can't reach me. And Dudley's scared of spiders so he doesn't come in my cupboard either.”

“You cupboard?” he asked curiously, nudging the highlighters that he'd dug out of a desk draw upstairs a bit closer.

Harry nodded as he grabbed the green one, tongue poking out as he focused on his drawing. “Uh huh. That's _my_ room. Not even Aunt Petunia goes in.”

“Is that where you play?” he asked slowly.

The four year old shook his head as he picked up the blue highlighter. “It's my room. I sleep there. I'm not a'post to play. I have chores. But I got soldiers. And a frog. I hide them in my shoebox,” he bragged smugly. “It's under the spider's nest in the corner so Uncle Vernon doesn't touch it. Done!” he exclaimed happily, neatly cutting through the red haze of utter fury slowly clouding through Cor's better judgement. He _didn't_ jump, but he did tense as Harry jumped down from his seat with his sheer of paper and eagerly climbed up into his lap to show him.

“And what's this?” he asked automatically when the four year old showed him, even though it was absolutely obvious, surprisingly so, at first glance.

“It's us. That's me.” The smallest figure with highlighter green eyes and a small neon yellow bird. “An' you.” With two highlighter blue dots for eyes and a thin black line with the slightest tilt up in one corner, holding the smallest figure's hand. “Reggie.” Green dots for eyes, a big smile in pink, and yellow dots down his chest and on his sleeves for the golden buttons. “Weskham.” He had used a pencil to colour in his skin, and gave him a highlighter pink waistcoat with yellow dot buttons. “'Rus.” The biggest one there, drawn like a triangle with pink dots for eyes. “And Cid.” The second shortest figure wearing highlighter blue trousers, jacket, and a pink hat.

Cor huffed a grin, “Pretty good. Do you want to show them all?” he asked, giving the child a small squeeze.

“Yeah!”

“Let's back up the pens and go inside then.” Between the two of them, Cor giving Harry the responsibility of holding onto the highlighters and his drawing, they cleaned up the table and headed back inside to show off his drawing. All the while Cor's mind working a mile a minute on how to approach the others about this. Normally, he would treat private conversations with Harry as just that, private, and never share a word spoken with the rest of the Retinue. But this? They needed to know so that they could figure out a way to stop Harry from going back. Stop him from having to return to people who would make him sleep in a fucking _**cupboard.**_

* * *

Cid took him for bath time and came back out looking more drowned than when a Coral Devil slapped him into the sea at Cape Caem. Harry on the otherhand was squeaky clean and yawning, more than ready for bed, as Cid dropped him off in Cor's lap and left grumbling about having a bath himself. Harry tucked his thumb in his mouth and cuddled up with his chocobo and burrowed into Cor's side on the sofa, quietly watching them all.

Weskham snapped another picture.

He would end up taking another one the next morning when everyone rose for the day. With Regis and Clarus occupying Mid and Melba's bed again, Cid and Weskham on the floor, the married couple in Alba and Carole's room, that left Cor and Harry the sofa downstairs. The four year old dead to the world, sprawled out bonelessly across the teenager's chest, thumb in mouth, chocobo in hand.

Melba thought it was precious while Alba joked about how he was going to have to keep those pictures quiet when he got back to Insomnia or he was never going to get a moment's peace. Well paid, talented, loyal, intelligent, young, _and_ good father material?

“You're not into older women at all, are you?” she asked teasingly.

Cor fled the house as quickly as possible amidst poorly stifled snickers.

* * *

Harry wasn't too keen on playing with the other children. He wasn't shy, he was just disinterested, or wary and good at pretending otherwise.

They also learned that he was a _climber_.

God help his mother when he was an infant.

This caused some drama amidst the other observing parents when they realised just how high up the tree he had managed to climb while chasing a bird before calling out to Cor and waving at him, very proud of himself for getting so high. Eventually he had to jump down where Cor could catch him.

Children who recognised him from the garden party came over to ask where the boy with the big gun was, and if they could see his sword. He told them that the boy was with Lady Auburnbrie right now, and showed them one of his swords, unsheathing it only a little so they could see the quality of the metal and the maker's mark, but not letting any little fingers get into contact with it.

“Who is the boy with the gun?” Harry asked later while they were walking back to Mid and Melba's.

“Mmm? A friend,” Cor told him with a small smile. “A very important one.”

* * *

Stopping off at Keycatrich ended up being a very pleasant little holiday.

One that ended in the evening when everyone was in the back garden enjoying a BBQ. Cor was talking quietly with Regis, Harry sat on his knee drawing at the table; Clarus, Cid, and Mid were at the grill, chugging beers and chatting while they flipped burgers and sausages; Weskham was with Melba and Alba talking in depth about something or other, and occasionally shooting the men at the grill a narrow stare when he thought they weren't paying enough attention to the food. He had been quite vexed when Cid took control of the grill from him, stating that he was too much of a chef to do a good BBQ.

There was a pop, and a bright flash of red light, and Cor grunted when the weight on his knee suddenly doubled. He grabbed Harry and hauled him back before he could fall, and suddenly the four year old was sixteen again, wearing familiar hunter leathers, holding a highlighter in one hand, and an expression of bewilderment that rapidly turned to horror.

“Aww!” Regis whined with a grin, “You're back!”

“Welcome back Harry,” Weskham called.

“Do you remember anything?” Cor asked, half-curious, half-amused, because, that face. That face said everything.

Harry went sunset red with utter mortification and Regis – _lit – up._

“You were so _cute!_” he exclaimed gleefully, “Following Cor like a baby chocobo, so _precious!_”

“Kill me now, please, just, just fucking throw me into the sun,” the hunter moaned between his fingers to the amusement of everyone.

“Six no!” Regis laughed. “You _have_ to see the pictures, Harry! Seriously, how were you so cute as a kid but ended up like this?!”

He glared at the Prince from between his fingers, face still crimson. “Thanks. It's the trauma,” he snipped sarcastically, prompting more laughter from everyone that wasn't Cor as he shifted his grip to pull him a little more comfortably against him, and, for a change, Harry didn't try to escape. Possibly because he thought he couldn't, or he had decided that Cor was the lesser of two evils right now.

“How are you feeling? Any pain or discomfort anywhere?” he asked quietly while Regis shouted Weskham over so the two of them could fuss over the photographs hey had taken in order to maximise Harry's embarrassment.

The hunter huffed and dropped his hands.

“Physically, I'm fine. My arms and nose hurt, but given how I hit that tube,” he trailed off as he unclipped the leather bracers from around his wrists to reveal the bruising from where the glass tube caught him. He stared at them for a moment before glowering at Cor. “This is your fault, just so you know,” he complained sullenly.

He stared at Harry in confusion.

“Should have just let _you_ be the one to get turned into a kid. Bet you would have been a hundred times cuter than this,” he muttered almost resentfully, which just ended up making Cor's mouth twitch.

“I was a hellbeast as a child. Ou woudn't have had shins or fingers by now if I'd been hit with that,” he refuted calmly, giving the hunter a squeeze. “You were a good boy.”

“Ugh, do not ever say those words in that order to me again,” he complained in disgust as Regis suddenly appeared and began to shove pictures at them.

* * *

“If you don't mind me asking,” Weksham prompted later that evening once the initial torment had worn off and everyone was eating, Harry finally being allowed to vacate Cor's lap to get his own food and change out of his leathers, “Why did you attach yourself so firmly to Cor? If I recall, you were not very keen on him at the start.”

Harry went a little pink and looked down so as to avoid everyone's staring before he awkwardly swallowed his food.

And then he reached down to hold up a certain chocobo ragdoll.

They stared.

He shrugged and out it back down, but only Cor was in a position to see how carefully he made sure it went where it wasn't going to get stepped on, or dirtied, or grabbed by one of the dogs who were finally allowed out of the kitchen now that he was no longer pint-sized and terrified of them.

“No, because Cor got you a stuffed chocobo, you liked him best?” Regis asked, flummoxed.

Harry shrugged again, and focused on his food. “Basically.”

“Cheap date,” Mid chuckled, and yelped when his wife slapped his arm.

“It's cute,” she scolded.

“Sooo, if I get you a _real_ chocobo – ” Regis began.

“I'd still like him best,” the hunter informed him flatly, only to stiffen and go bright red a breath before the garden erupted into hooting catcalls and exclamations. “Oh fuck you all, you assholes!!” he snapped in mortification.

Cor huffed a quiet snicker at him as he had to wrestle Regis off him, the Prince attempting to cling an arm around him and ruffle his hair, loudly exclaiming about how proud he was that Harry was finally being honest about his feelings. He was all grown up now, a man, look at him! He'd come so far since they first met! So cute! He felt like a proud papa watching him as a little boy, now he was a man, proclaiming his love to the world and – WOULD YOU FUCK OFF REGIS?!!

Yes, Harry had been very cute as a small child. But he much rather preferred this Harry. Sharp edges, witty one-liners, and – he should probably go and save Regis from him before the line of Lucis ended tonight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one WAS fun. I kinda wanna do a What If scenario where Cor DID get caught by that machine. That would be hilarious. If you thought Cor was full of Fight Me as a teenager, you'll find it hilarious to know he was so much more calmed down from childhood.


	4. Flock Together

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tags: ABO!AU, Wing!AU, non-conventional ABO dynamics, omega!Harry ain't having none of your Alpha bullshit, cultural differences, disney-princess!Potter (aka The Second Coming of Hagrid). (There is overly gendered language in use with regards to genitals at one point - I don't know how to tag for that, I'm sorry if anyone is triggered by that)
> 
> Harry yeets himself off the hand of a God and ends up with some unexpected additions. Some appreciated, some not so appreciated. Everyone has an opinion and he would be quite grateful if they all fucked off out of his forest about them and left him alone.

“No. I refuse,” he declared, loudly, in the cold glowing light of a celestial aurora, wobbling to his feet upon the hand of an armoured titan able to crush him like a pill bug, with even less effort. “Ain't no way, ain't no _how_. No. Nada. Nyet. Nein. Non. It just isn't happening.”

_ **I T I S T H E D U T Y O F T H O S E W H O B E A R T H E L I G H T – ** _

“Not my circus, not my monkeys! And you're not my God!” he snapped, before turning heel and throwing himself off the beings hand before claw-tipped fingers could crush him, or snatch him back.

He knew his lines, he knew where he stood in front, behind, and upon them. He was not a killer. He would _not_ kill. Not for some unknown being he randomly met on an ethereal plane, not when upon finding him the first thing the armoured titan attempted to do was trap him in some kind of magically binding vow of servitude, babbling about duty, light, honour, and responsibility, all the while commanding him to murder a man. As if any of those things defined by him had anything to do with _Harry_. He had honour, but it was his, defined by him. He had duty, it was forced on him yes, but he _chose_ to accept it. He could have run, he _chose_ not to.

If he was ever going to kill, it would be his choice, his responsibility, his burden.

Not at the behest of a giant armoured bag of dicks looking down the length of his sizeable metal plated nostrils like he was a booger at the end of his finger.

Fuck. That.

But in that single breathless moment when he leapt, and reached for his magic using an instinct he didn't know he had, everything stretched in one breathless, too-bright, too-dark moment, and it was like all the air was sucked out of his lungs. No.

_crushed out_

Like some poor abused squeaky toy in Ripper's merciless jaws.

And then – as if with the popping of a soap bubble

everything burst

light  
sound  
air

_gravity_

He dropped like a stone the wind tearing at his back and then he hit water.

Cold. Merciless.

_Hard._

He gasped.

Inhaled.

Drowned.

And then sank.

Magic burned inside him, and then everything else burned with it.

* * *

He never did find out what happened.

One moment he was fairly _certain_ he was drowning, the next, he was being clucked over by a giant pitch black bird, his back feeling like it was on _fire_, his chest feeling as though someone had poured petrol down his throat and then lit a _match_ in his chest. It felt so much worse than his back. He had drowned, it wasn't surprising. What was surprising was that his back didn't hurt _more_ once he'd realised what had happened, or rather, _why_ it was hurting.

Wings.

He had grown wings.

Huge elegant black wings from his shoulderblades.

Such a dark shade they looked almost blue in the early morning light, and gold at sunset.

When they were clean at least.

When he first got out of the lake, there was no other word but filthy for them. They were ugly, bedraggled things, sodden with blood and lake water, algae, slime in some places, and mud. So. Much. _Mud._

Everywhere, head to foot, he was just covered in it. Likely as not the friendly black feathered bird had dragged him out of the lake through the mudflats. Which was very kind of it, he decided, giving the bird a gentle pat on the chest as he attempted to sit up.

It was.... hard. The wings _hurt_, and they were _heavy_, dragging painfully on his shoulders, ribs, and his _collarbones_.

It would be absolutely fucking typical that he finally achieved his childhood dream of getting wings – only to be unable to fly because he didn't have the muscle for it.

* * *

Miss Kimya Auburnbrie was very nice. And she had wings too, so he didn't have to be worried about hiding his own, not really.

In fact, once she'd bundled him up and all but _carried_ him to Meldacio, he realised that _everyone_ had wings. In dizzying arrays of colours and kinds. Miss Kimya had beautiful rusty red and white wings with black markings here and there, her sister was the same, but had none of the white, and Miss Ezma's son Dave shared only the rusty red shade with the women of his family.

He saw a man with green parrot-like wings, a woman with blue budgie wings, many had the same kind of brown wings that he had seen at home on finches. All of them were large and powerful looking, people fluttered and hopped without problem from the ground of Meldacio to the various buildings built into the cliffs and the underside of the arches overhead.

Kimya took him to her place to get him cleaned up with Dave's help, cooing about how she would help him find his way home.

It wasn't until she washed away all the muck that she apparently realised he wasn't the small child she thought he was. Then her expression became one of horror, and then fury and sorrow as she and her nephew worked together to clean away all the mud and blood from his 'emaciated' back and shoulders. Dave looked freaked out because his 'struts' wouldn't stop bleeding – Harry assumed that was what they called shoulderblades, or, the part of the shoulderblade that attached to the wings? He didn't know. He kept his mouth shut and shuddered when Miss Kimya pressed her magic into him.

“Mmmm.... feels like y'all've got a _twist_ here,” she muttered before placing her hand between his shoulders, “This'll hurt, lil' Fledgelin'. Best grit yer teeth 'fore ya bite yer tongue off,” she warned – and that was _all_ the warning he got before it suddenly felt she she was digging her fingers in around his spinal cord and _**wrenching**_ it.

He was aware of screaming.

Gripping the bathtub sides hard enough for his hands to burn

writhing in the water and trying to pull away from her

she clamped one hand at the base of his wing and held him still, pulled him up out of the water when he tried to bow away from her

the lights exploded

he smacked Dave with a wing by accident

and then... everything went black.

* * *

He melted their bathtub.

Apparently when Kimya had been healing whatever damage there was to his chest and back from both drowning and the wings, the pain had caused his magic to go haywire, and when he grabbed the edges of the bathtub, his hands caught fire and _melted it_. Then there was the minor electrical storm he caused, shattering the lightbulbs, knocking out the power to the whole of Meldacio as well as charging every single battery and generator over their capacity, completely ruining them.

And then he'd passed out, and Kimya had to catch his head pretty fast or risk him breaking his nose on the _frozen_ bathwater he was embedded in. That took some chiselling off.

But, they managed to get him cleaned up. Him and his wings. Put him in some of Dave's old clothes, and put him to bed in the other teenager's nest, widening it a little bit, adding more pillows and blankets and set a hotwater bottle between his struts to prevent any muscle cramping.

Which was where he woke up, groggy, feeling terrible, and listening through a slightly cracked door as Kimya's sister Ezma flipped her ever loving shit about a bastard lucis caelum bringing the Empire down on Meldacio's head, and how they needed to get Portuttle to put word out through the tipster network to get the Prince here stat. Dave asked quietly why they were all so certain that Harry was a lucis caelum?

“He's got black wings, boy!” Ezma snapped, sounding unfamiliar with the thread of stress and aggression sharpening and making her sound harsher, rougher, “An' he uses magic! Ain't no other black winged magic users in th'damn world. We need t'keep him inside, out of sight. Make a nest in th'basement. I got some rope, we'll pad it with cotton, strap his wings down,” she decided and Harry felt a very real fissure of fear and alarm down his spine as he forced himself upright.

“Ezma! We can't keep 'im prisoner!” Kimya exclaimed, horrified.

“We can't let 'im outside neither! It's fer his own good!” her sister snapped, and Harry shoved himself out of the comfortable blankets fearfully.

Absolutely _not!_

He grabbed the flipflops he saw tucked under the bed, shoved them on his feet, and climbed out of the window. He took one of the blankets with him to cover his _apparently_ rare black wings from sight.

Meldacio was like a kicked over ant-hill.

No one noticed him climbing the side of the mountain and vanishing into the treeline.

* * *

Kimya eventually found him living near the huge lake where she first found him. They didn't meet often because her sister was fucking _insane_, but Kimya was willing to bring him food, tools, weapons, and answer any questions he had about the world. She always looked a bit sad when he asked her about something that was apparently common knowledge, but she never pried into his history so he let her think whatever she wanted to think about his 'tragic' origins. She showed him how to strengthen his wings, and was there for his first gliding attempts, she was also there for some of his experiments in summoning his magic – and nearly died of asphyxiation from laughter when he accidentally burnt his eyebrows off.

She only attempted to talk him into returning to Meldacio once, and it was half-hearted at best. He hadn't even needed to say anything when she brought it up, just looked at her, and she snorted before changing the subject with a 'ya, thought not'.

He never told her where exactly it was he was living, she didn't ask, she just knew it was near-by and left it at that.

He had been riding his new friend, Nox, the giant black bird that pulled him out of the lake, when they'd gone off the beaten track and into a narrow gorge as the sun began to set. The bird took him straight to a waterfall with a beautiful glowing blue design carved into the rocks beside it, and then settled herself down and refused to be moved. Harry would eventually come to learn why, but for that night he decided to set up camp and sleep there quite happily. It was a good spot. The canopy of the little forest was so thick that no one could spot him from the air when they flew overhead – not that many tried after the giant wasps that lived in the cliffs got pissed off at them, hah.

It took a while, but he thought he was doing pretty good at this whole wilderness survival thing.

He made nice with Nox who was a wonderful friend. He got that ugly ass thorny monstrosity that nested in the heart of the forest to tolerate him. It was an utterly foul tempered thing, but it would protect him now, and didn't even flick an eyelid at the sight of him anymore. It was probably the fish Harry fed it as tribute. He named it Muffin in Hagrid's honour. It probably thought he was some manner of strange, clumsy, hairless baby bird given how after a month of him feeding it and falling off things and occasionally deciding to climb on it.

He didn't _stay_ in Muffin's clearing, because despite everything else and how awesome she was, plus the fact the daemons avoided said clearing pretty religiously, it was haunted.

There was a creepy lady in armour that had wings made of bladed bone, and that was not a spirit he wanted to get close to even if the first time they met she seemed more surprised that he could see her than he was to see her. Given the stone structure behind her, he figured it must have been her tomb, so he left her be and sometimes left flowers at the door, hoping a little bit that she wouldn't murder him in his sleep, or hurt Muffin. He didn't _think_ she would, she hadn't so far? But.... yeah.

He managed. It was nice actually.

He kept a diary if only so he wouldn't forget anything important. It would make for interesting reading when he went back home if nothing else. It might help Madam Pomfrey figure out how to reverse this because..... he wasn't going to lie.

The wings weren't the only change.

He just didn't know how to address the.... extra orifice downstairs. That was.... very new. And he was very carefully pretending it didn't exist because – that was a kettle of fish he didn't want to deal with. At all.

* * *

And then, of course, his peace was disturbed.

He had gotten pretty good at flying in the recent weeks, but he couldn't keep it up for long periods of time. He didn't have the endurance. So, once he was finished spear-fishing at the Vesper, he was left to hike back to Myrlwood with his woven basket of fish. He had made a point of catching a few Vesper Gar for Muffin, she really liked those. And he was assuming she was female, he didn't know, he didn't have the faintest idea of how to check, or the interest in doing so.

It was a lovely day, hot, and the walk was peaceful as he sacrificed some of his catch to the local wildlife who let him pass without molestation, used to his comings and goings and tributes. As foul-tempered and territorial as most of them were, several weeks of being fed, not attacked, and even actively assisted on occasion had rendered him something of a neutral party in the valley. Nothing attacked him during the day. At night? Well. Despite his magic being able to pop them like soap-bubbles, he did not go out much at night. It was just more trouble than it was worth.

The only time he stayed out all night was when he was looking for, and then protecting Nox when she was injured.

It was a long walk, a pleasant one, but a long one, and he was huffing and puffing with the weight of his fishing basket on his back by the time he reached his waterfall, the horrible stink and sensation of blood and fish slime having oozed down his back and all the way down to his ankles. Back in his clearing, he set aside the large Vesper Gar he caught for Muffin, and then began the process of descaling and gutting the other fish before stringing them up to dry. He bowled up the fish guts to be mulched later for his planters and then stripped out of his ratty blood-stained trousers to get washed.

It wasn't until he was in the water, cleaning up, that he felt the undeniable itch between his wings of someone watching him.

He couldn't have stopped his feathers from bristling even if he knew how. The cold water, coupled with the sudden awareness of how vulnerable he was, naked, alone, with his weapons and tools over in his bamboo shelter, and nowhere within reach, was a very stark and unpleasantly cold one. They didn't show themselves, or announce themselves, but Harry hadn't survived alone out here without trusting his instincts. And right now, they were telling him he was being watched.

He finished cleaning up, staying in the water to scrub his blood-stained trousers while he was at it before pretending he hadn't noticed them and getting out to hang them and get fresh clothes, and closer to his knives.

It was only after he had trousers and one of Dave's hand-me-down shirts on that they finally made themselves known.

A group of five huge men dropped down into the clearing, incidentally blocking the exit, which really put his back up.

“Finally get bored now I'm fully clothed?” he demanded caustically before the one with the black wings could open his mouth. The group spluttered, some of them going red, others choking in horror, one of them, the oldest, snorted in amusement at his companions. Harry rolled his eyes hard enough to hurt before rolling his sleeves up and going to collect his bowl of fishguts. “What do you want?” he demanded as he took the bowl to a planter full of mud from the lake-bed. It seemed pretty fertile given all the plant-life around the lake, and he remembered reading that fish bone and guts were good for gardens, so, mixing the two would hopefully give his vegetable planters the best chance of actually yielding some decent food.

“Just to talk,” the black winged man explained, watching him curiously as he mixed the lot up with a bare hand. His big friend with the stormy grey albatross wings grimacing in disgust at the blood and filth Harry was handling. “Please, allow me to introduce myself and my companions. This is Clarus Amacitia,” the biggest guy there with the huge albatross wings, “Weskham Armaugh,” the neat black man with the immaculate kingfisher wings, “Cid Sophiar,” the older guy with bright red parrot wings, “Cor Leonis,” the youngest of the group with huge golden eagle wings, “And I am Regis Lucis Caelum,” he finished, gesturing to himself with the expression of a man who expected to be recognised and was a little embarrassed by that fact, his large black swan wings ruffling a little. “May I have your name?” he asked enthusiastically.

Harry scoffed, “No. You may not. But you can call me Harry,” he stated dismissively. Yeah, like hell he was going to fall for the _oldest_ trick in the book after he had so narrowly escaped that armoured bag of dicks.

The others looked confused and offended, while 'Regis' looked delighted, “You know the old ways!” he exclaimed, pleased. Harry gave him a scathing look but didn't reply as he got to his feet with his stinking bowl of mud and guts, and took it to his planter to work it into the soil properly.

An awkward silence stretched out between the strangers as he continued to ignore them.

“Sheesh, tough crowd,” the big guy, Amacitia, muttered in amusement.

* * *

“What do you want? I don't ask again,” the tiny black winged omega demanded coldly without looking up from his rustic mud-brick box as he squelched fistfuls of offal and mud into the soil.

Regis looked a little pained, his struts tensed with anxiety, “Do you – know who I am, Harry?” he asked gently, hopefully.

Green eyes gave them a dismissive glance, “No.”

Weskham wasn't the only one to see their Prince's ever so slight slump of disappointment and confusion, or the way his feathers flattened sadly. “Ah, well, that... does make things somewhat more complicated,” he admitted awkwardly in what was perhaps the understatement of the century. They find an illegitimate unpresented omega Lucis Caelum and the poor thing not only still has the feather down of a child at fifteen, but the muscle development of someone who had never flown a day in their life, and had _no idea who the Prince of the country was_.

“We've never met before, so why should it matter to me who you are?” the omega questioned flatly as he washed his bowl at the water's edge before propping it up between several rocks to dry.

“Because we're family, actually,” Reggie blurted out, stung and a little hurt. Only to wince afterwards for the rather... hamhanded confession.

The boy gave him a doubtful look. “We're not related,” he stated, as if the similarities weren't absolutely undeniable or glaringly obvious, as if they hadn't run blood-test proof. “I don't have family here.”

Clarus snorted, “Well, clearly you do,” he pointed out lightly, gesturing to Regis, “There's absolutely no doubt you're a Lucis Caelum.”

The child rolled his eyes and turned away, “My family name is Potter. And it goes back quiet a few centuries. Sorry, I'm not who you're looking for,” he stated plainly, clearly not believing them as he hauled up the three fish that had to be as _long_ as he was tall, and packed them back into his basket. Family name of Potter, so definitely of common birth, and a family prone to alpha off-spring if the name had persisted for centuries. _His_ black wings were obvious, and Lady Auburnbrie had confessed about his magical power – and after seeing the remains of the bathtub they couldn't deny the fact that he _had_ magic, _powerful _magic by the look of it. That didn't mean his family did. However, there would be signs of Lucis Caelum blood throughout the years, signs that any Lucian worth their salt would recognise. Chances were young Harry's family line originated _outside_ of Lucis. And there was only one King who had ever ventured so far abroad – the Warrior. To the point where he had been buried in Succarpe.

This child could be from an illegitimate line of his. Weskham wasn't even going to entertain the notion that his Prince's ancestors were perfectly well behaved men and women. Just as he wouldn't be surprised if there were _more_ illegitimate lines out there in hidden corners of the world – like the Auburnbries for example being a blend of both Lucis Caelum and Lucis Fleuret, one of the lines of the Oracle. But the magic bred true in their daughters, blessing them with swatches of white within their wings, otherwise they would have been brought into Insomnia, like they now had to with young Harry.

“Excuse me, it's feeding time,” the omega announced before a hard pump of his wings sent him hopping over their heads – not as under developed as Weskham first thought perhaps?

“Feeding time?” Regis echoed in confusion, looking at them.

* * *

That was a _Dread King Bandersnatch_.

Clarus felt all four of his testicles launch their way firmly up through his lungs and ribcage to lodge themselves in his throat the second they stepped out of the crevasse and into a clearing to find the cute little omega stood literally in front of a Town Killer fiend, hand feeding it fish, while it wriggled and churred like a happy dog for him.

The sound Cor made was absolutely rude.

Regis – had stopped breathing entirely with horror.

“What in th'six hells a'th'Hexatheon did y'all put in that stew last night, Wesk?” Cid demanded weakly, several shades paler even as his vivid Leidian red wings puffed up and bristled with anxiety and alarm. Just like everyone else's. All five of them hovered at the edge of the top of the cliff in frozen horror at the sight below.

Dread Kings were a classification of Alpha Fiend. Yes there were your regular bog standard fiend, but then there were the Alphas, stronger, tougher, faster, smarter. Then there was the King classification, same as Alpha, just worse. _Dread King_ was a classification that so far was only issued to one creature of each fiend species, and they were the record breakers, the titanic ones, the strangely mutated ones. The ones that, if unleashed in a population centre like say, _Insomnia_, would rack a kill count up in the hundreds of thousands before Crownsguard or Royal Guard could stop them. They were the _Alpha_ of Alphas amongst their kind. Classed as Environmental Disasters more than fiends. Whenever a King gained the size and hormone imbalance to force its aggression levels up to eleven, Meldacio Hunter HQ immediately issued a writ for all Rank 10 Hunters to form up and take it out before it levelled any settlements. And here was _undeniably_ a Dread King Bandersnatch, twice the size of its regular breathern, with thrice the black spikes, double the size of mandibles, puffing steam that Clarus _really_ didn't want to get near – he liked his flesh unmelted, wriggling like a Labrador and getting cooed at by an omega that didn't even come to his nipples in height.

Regis was about to summon the armiger out of sheer fucking anxiety. No wonder Weskham was on the verge of fainting as he kept a white knuckled grip on Cor's shoulder, half to hold himself up, half to hold the youngster back as they clutched desperately to their better judgement and _did not attack_ while the tiny unpresented omega was oh so very close with his _incredibly oh so very fragile bones one head-twitch from shattering between those tank crushing mandibles._

The kid fed it another fish, and scratched its nose horn as though it were a puppy, and Clarus felt a little bit of himself die inside.

* * *

Muffin did not like strangers intruding on her personal space.

Harry had to keep her much more distracted than usual whenever she looked like she was contemplating violence, bristling and rattling her horns and grumbling, half an eye on the strangers at the top of the cliff, half an eye on him to make sure he didn't go near them. She got _really_ pissed off when he accidentally got too close to the cliff, jetting steam and chuntering until he crooned and fluttered back, letting her circle and cut him off from them and flop down into the mud, churring even as she angled her head to keep a murderous blue eye on the strangers.

He had absolutely no intention of sleeping in the clearing, not with the ghost lady appearing when the sun went down. Eventually he had to tell the fives blokes to fuck off so he could leave without Muffin pitching the mother of all fits. She still wasn't happy, but after a judicious application of scritchies to her face, she was much more willing to let him clamber across her back and flutter his way up the cliff. He was still getting the hang of short-upwards momentum, so it was ungainly and a little ugly. More tiring than it was worth, but the way he looked at it was he would never get strong enough for sustained flight unless he put the time in.

Of course the weirdos hadn't left, they were stood in the crevasse arguing about how to go in there and 'save' him, weapons in hand.

“If you stab my sentient rosebush, I will set you on fire and then dump your asses at the bottom of Steyliff Grove with no weapons,” he promised them flatly as he ducked under the big guy's grey albatross wing.

“You're alright!” the black winged one, Regis(?), exclaimed in relief, his feathers flattening down from where they had been bristled and semi-mantled over his shoulders with anxiety.

Harry rolled his eyes again, slipping out from between them on the otherside, “Obviously. I'm not a fucking moron. She's huge. If she were in any way aggressive towards me I wouldn't go fucking _near_ her,” he snipped in disgust. Why else would he spend a month lurking at the top of the cliff throwing her fish, getting as close as she would allow, then throwing more, rinse, repeat, until he was close enough to hand-feed, and then use a bit of magic to heal the nasty slash across her face. After that, they were great friends.

“It's male,” the youngest of the group told him shortly, looking determinedly to the left of him. “Bandersnatch, Dread King Class, they're called Town Killers for a reason. They're considered too aggressive to be allowed to live,” he explained stiffly.

“Muffin hasn't – ”

“_MUFFIN?!!_” several voices choked.

“Inside joke,” Harry grunted. “Muffin hasn't done anything more dangerous than menace the local cliff-faces trying to scratch his nose. Maybe people need to learn how to navigate the territory of apex predators and not antagonise them?” he suggested scathingly before he carried on walking.

Was this how Hagrid felt? He was beginning to get the feeling that this was how Hagrid felt.

* * *

Weskham had heard stories of omega that, when abandoned or left to their own devices and starved of human interaction and support, would flock to all sorts of weird and wonderful creatures. There were many famous and beloved fairytales featuring such themes, some of which were even based in reality – such as the Oracle omega who vanished as a little girl and was later found by the future Oracle King living amongst dragons in the mountains. Child omega abandoned in the ancient days being taken in by packs of Voreteeth and running with them. Children in abusive households flocking with the neighbourhood pets, or whatever _insects_ that may exist with them. Refugee and homeless children flocking with feral cats and dogs in Insomnia.

There was even that lovely young man they met in Duscae that found himself flocking to an entire herd of chocobo after he lost his unit in the fighting and was left to fend for his own life in the wilderness with Niflheim troopers and daemons and fiends on the prowl. If he hadn't befriended the local birds, he would have doubtlessly died. Or so he felt, Weskham was not about to disagree with him.

But to find an omega, still with his childrens' down, with a _Dread King Bandersnatch_ wrapped around his little finger.... it was unprecedented. The stuff of legend.

That, and just about every other creature in the basin!

They camped at the haven young Harry had deemed his own that night, keeping strictly to one side for the omega's comfort. Attempts to encourage him to join them were ignored, Weskham had made up some food for him and he had given it the most suspicious look possible a moment before the chocobo he called 'Nox' decided to resolve the issue by eating it instead. Cid laughed at them.

It rained during the night, but come morning, Weskham was incapable of not stepping over that unspoken border between their camps to see if Harry had managed it alright. He was curled up comfortably in his shelter, tucked up on Nox, their wings draped over one another for warmth. Sleeping soundly.

Which he continued to do until mid-morning when Nox evidentially grew hungry and decided to bolt out of the shelter with a cheery wark, leaving Harry to tumble out with a squawk and hit the ground face first.

Then it was time to go fishing, apparently. Something that Regis was more than enthusiastic about doing.

Harry didn't seem too happy about their decision to come with him, but he didn't try to stop them. Which was where they got a front-row seat to the living proof that he had the entire population of the Vesperpool wrapped around his little finger, _not_ just the bandersnatch. Mandrakes, Cockatrice, Basilisks, Sahagin, you name it. They got close enough to see Harry, they all turned away and either ignored him or called out and cosied up. Those that did often got petted, sometimes he would give them fish from his basket of bait, but regardless, he was allowed through their territory unmolested.

The one time Regis landed to try and walk with him, a Basilisk almost rammed him off the path with a furious shriek.

And then Harry started fishing, ignoring them.

He was a lot better at it than Regis.

* * *

Regis had.... mixed feelings.

When they had arrived in Meldacio at the behest of Madam Auburnbrie, they expected vital intelligence, troop movements, information on Niflheim weapons, maybe a person of interest that had been rescued by a hunter and was now being held prisoner. When she told him that she'd found a _'knot-hole_' belonging to his flock, he hadn't known what on Eos she had been talking about.

Not until her sister pulled him aside and handed him a bundle of downy blue-black feathers, still soft and silken, until she took him to the bathroom with its _destroyed_ bathtub, the melted sides and finger grooves within the metal, the lightning scars flowering up the walls and the shattered blown out lights overhead. Then she told him about the tiny omega she'd found staggering around the Vesper Bowl. Plastered in mud and blood, no muscle to speak of, too weak to even hold his own wings up, they trailed along behind him, weighted and sodden with water and filth, near to pulling his collarbones and struts out of their sockets, his back muscles twisted and cramped to tearing with the weight of them. His breathing harsh and wet in ways that scared her, bruises across almost every inch of his back, chest, shoulders, stomach, thighs and knees. His clothes had been torn and barely hanging onto his tiny frame by threads and filth, and when they finally got him cleaned up, they found the flesh of his back around his struts had been torn open, shredded. Recently, because they were still bleeding, even then. He destroyed the bathroom when she healed him, he was in so much pain.

Then she'd given him a washcloth, brown and stiff with dry blood.

He called his father immediately, and passed the cloth into the armiger for the Crownsguard to test it back in Insomnia.

There was no doubt in his mind, what so ever. The colour of those feathers, the damage to the bathtub, the walls. There was a very high chance that this omega that Lady Auburnbrie had found was of his flock-line.

When the results came through the next day accompanied by a phonecall from his father commanding him to collect the child and bring him to Insomnia, Regis had been more than willing to do just that. Omegas weren't _rare_ per-say, but they were barely a third of the population in Lucis. Tenebrae had more, if only because their history placed more positive emphasis on omegas due to their royal family and magics, it used to be in Lucis that alpha children were more prized, and that meant omega children were often left for fate and the gods to find when times got lean.

A Royal Omega though? Theirs was not a line blessed with many omega. Even their daughters tended towards presenting Alpha. The Rogue being a prime example. But what few omega that did present in their line? They were almost _all_ bestowed with the honour of Bahamut's personal interest, held up in the annals of history as Kings of Yore. The Oracle King, the Just, and the Fierce. And now.... now this tiny feral omega with the whole of Vesper at his command.

But he didn't _act_ like an omega, or an alpha.

It was as though... he were entirely without awareness of it.

He looked at their wings, there was recognition in his eyes, but it meant _nothing_ to him. He saw the Amacitia's noble wing-span and it meant nothing to him. The vivid colouration of both Cid and Weskham may as well have not existed to him for all it did to endear him to their personalities. And Cor – poor Cor.... his unremarkable mottled brown wings, huge, but dull, not even a second glance, even as he puffed them out to make them appear bigger, lifted them a little higher entirely without realising it.

He didn't know that black wings symbolised the Lucis Caelums'. He didn't know that it _proved_ his Royal Blood as much as wielding the armiger would have. As much as his magic already _had_.

But he kept his peace, and he let Cid handle it.

He was, after all, the father of a male omega. Unlike the rest of them, he actually knew how to handle the somewhat delicate subject.

* * *

He was up to his greasy tits in idiots, Cid decided, and he was going to tell Mors that when they got the little chickee to Insomnia. After which he would sit back and enjoy watching the little bastard raise unholy hell because even if these royal morons couldn't see it, Cid could. This kid, omega or not, was hell in a handbasket and would _not_ tolerate the glorified bird-cage that Insomnia represented.

His wings were made for flight. Fluffy and weak as they were, the fact that when Kimya found him he couldn't even hold them up, and now a month later he was fluttering and gliding under his own power, more than proved his point. This was a boy who would never allow someone to steal his freedom from him again.

Cid was honestly looking forward to the fight that was going to break out when they tried to force him to do anything against his will. Insomnia had a rather ass-backwards culture towards omega that Cid had never really approved of. It was why he never took Mid with him when he and his wife moved there. He had barely been old enough to leave the nest, and everyone would have rather he gone with them, but Cid hadn't wanted his bright and brilliant little boy to be crumpled down to fit with what _they_ thought he should have been. Out here in Lucis proper, people had too much shit to be getting on with to worry overmuch about what was between your legs. The problem with Insomnia was that they were cooped up all close and on top of each other and stressed to all shit, trapped, unable to fly. So they got stupid notions into their heads, went strange, cared about the dumbest of stuff and got their feathers in a tizzy about all the wrong things.

The kid didn't act like they thought an omega should.

But to Cid, the kid was quintessential in every way that meant a damn thing.

Omega were not, at their core, the soft sweet nurturers that Insomnia liked to think they were. They were viciously territorial hell-beasts that got possessive as all fuck and would rip your throat out with their bare teeth if they thought you were going to throw hands. What these city slickers forgot about their precious Kings of Yore, about the Just and the Fierce, was the fact that they were the way they were _because_ they were omega. They looked to the people of Lucis, to the land, and they declared it to be their flock, to be their nest, _and they would defend it to their last breath_.

So the kid, Potter, would rip them a new asshole if they tried to take him away from the place he had decided was _his_.

But before they got that far, he needed to address some other shit.

Mid had been a late bloomer as far as omega went, no where near as late as this kid, but he had been late enough to cause concerns. And given what Kimya had told them before they came down here.... he had a feeling he was going to have to have a private conversation with the kid.

* * *

“Blood tests came back positive,” the old geezer of the group informed him, hunkering down at the edge of the water while he was fishing.

“Blood tests?” Harry demanded sharply, glaring at him as he puffed away on his cigarette.

“Yep. Those sisters up at Meldacio kept some'a'th'rags they used t'clean y'all up before. We sent one'a'them back t'Insomnia t'be tested. Blood's a match. Yer definitely related to Reggie there. As if the magic didn' give it away t'anyone with eyes,” he explained, puffing away like it wasn't a big deal.

“That can't be possible,” Harry stated. Because it _couldn't_, he wasn't _from_ this world!

The old geezer shrugged a shoulder, “I'm jest tellin' y'all what th'science says. But that aside, y'all got some gaps in yer education y'all ought to have filled in. Kimya ain't told us much, but I got a son like you, I can assume easy enough,” he declared as he stubbed his cigarette out on the mud and then tucked the butt into a pocket. “Y'all don't have t'answer, but I'm gunna assume y'all were raised in some kinda form a'isolation. Never flown, don't know what the colour a'th'wings symbolise, unfamiliar with family units, with magic, with the geography an'th'history a'th'country. That sorta stuff. But, I'm gunna assume a step further, and guess that no one thought t'tell y'all shit about what's goin' on between yer legs, am I right?” he asked blithely, and Harry felt himself go cold, and still.

“See,” the old guy continued, looking out across the lake as if he hadn't noticed, “Y'all've probably heard folk throwin' terms around like 'alpha' an' 'omega'. Well, they're like genders, male an' female. Word was that back in th'days a'Solheim folk were _only_ male an' female. No alphas, no omegas. But after th'Astral Wars, human populations were so low that th'Astrals did a lil'tweakin' t'hurry the repopulation process back up. Gave us wings in th'process t'make it easier fer folk t'escape daemons too, t'keep us alive longer. But either way. Male, female, alpha, omega.

“Alpha is basically short hand fer insemination. Fertilizers at its most boiled down. Alpha males got two sets a'testes, an' all the trouble that goes with it. Increased testosterone, increased sperm production, hyper fertility. Some get hit worse than others, some get off relatively light. Alpha females got a set a'both. Ovaries an' testes. She'll have reduced fertility because a'th'conflictin' hormones, but there'll be times a'th'year an' month when 'er system'll have a higher concentration a'each making it more likely t'conceive at those times.

“Omegas are on th'other end'a'th'rainbow. Female omega have four ovaries, each can produce an egg at different times, an' 'er body can carry 'em at differin' levels a'development. Generally fertile all th'time. Super dangerous though, carryin' that many at once. Omega males have both ballsack an' uterus. So you, bein' an omega, can get pregnant.”

It felt like his stomach was full of ice and acid all at the same time.

“But yer a majorly late bloomer. So y'all haven't 'presented' yet. That's what we call it when folk shed their down feathers ter show their wings in full form. Y'all can generally tell at a glance who's alpha an' omega by their wings,” he explained, stretching one of his red ones out. “See, its got one joint less than you. That's because, an' fergive me fer bein' rude, most folk prefer t'fuck in midair. Both wings flappin' around at th'same time can get awkward and dangerous, so omega get ball-an-socket joint wings, an' an extra joint there to angle 'emselves comfortably. Also means ya make fer pretty wicked fliers.”

Harry swallowed, and took a moment to close his eyes and concentrate.

Okay.

Okay.

He – he had girl parts.

Not the end of the world.

Madam Pomfrey could get rid of them (he would ask nicely to keep the wings).

He just had to _deal_ with that fact until he could leave this world. So. What? Don't have sex. That way you won't get pregnant.

Not difficult. At all. So there was no need to freak out about it.

However.

He looked at the old guy suspiciously, “You don't act like the others around me. You said you had a son like me, is that why?” he asked sharply.

He nodded as he lit up another cigarette. “I was born in Leide. Outside Insomnia, which is where th'others come from. I was raised not t'give a rats about what folk might have between their legs. Too much t'get done t'be worryin' about that kinda nonsense. Any pair a'hands is a good pair fer workin'. S'what I was raised by, an' what I've raised my boy on. But folk in th'city? They got time t'think'a stupid shit. Got notions about what's right an' proper an' all that fer alphas an' omegas. They won't treat y'all bad, but they'll definitely pussyfoot around ya.”

Whatever expression was on Harry's face it must have been a good one because the old guy took one look and started roaring with laughter.

* * *

Cor didn't know what to do.

He – _honestly_ had not intended to listen in on the conversation between Cid and the omega, but Regis had asked him to stick close and keep him safe until they could reach Insomnia. He had intended to do so _anyway_, but it settled the small itch between his struts to know that he was not shirking his duty to Regis by doing so. He had only meant to be close enough to come swiftly if there was an attack, he hadn't realised sound would carry so well near water.

An omega who didn't know what an omega was. Who hadn't even taken wing until a month ago. Who had escaped from what Cor was beginning to believe was some kind of twisted metal box or basement to hear some of the suspicious questions the other teenager had. Who still had childrens' down in his mid-teens.

The only people he had seen his age or close to with down still in their wings were refugees. Those people who had been malnourished and stressed to the point where their bodies just didn't feel safe enough to shed those childhood feathers, thus exposing them to the cold, or have the energy to grow their adult feathers in properly.

And in this case, he was beginning to have the uncomfortable impression that it was _both_ in this omega's case.

But.

_But_.

A Dread King Bandersnatch.

His grandfather told him that you could tell the quality of an omega by the company they drew to themselves, that if he wanted a good life partner, he needed to look for the right omega, or the right alpha if he was so inclined, by who or what they surrounded themselves with. The apex of apex, and the entire valley of Vesper. Not to mention the short period of time he had been here for and created a very comfortable nest on a haven in a forest with absolutely no help, and only a handful of tools, while hiding from the various hunters that Ezma Auburnbrie had quietly sent out to hunt him down and bring him back.

It spoke very highly of his quality.

Never mind his face, or his back and wings. If they had just been a different colour – if he _hadn't_ been a Lucis Caelum.... He glanced at the young omega as he gutted his catch and threw the guts to one side for a sahagin and her young to feast on at the water's edge. The line of his shoulders and neck, the arch of his struts, his wings were longer than Regis', a little narrower, they were beautiful. He was. Everything from his eyes, his back, his waist and hips and legs, his _face_.

But he was Royalty.

Unknowing, disbelieving.

But his wings, his magic, his _blood_, didn't lie. Couldn't lie.

So Cor looked away, and lingered to one side, needlessly making sure nothing would attack him here, in his own basic, in his territory, surrounded by the beasts he would rather spend his time with than the people flocking near-by. There was no chance for him there. Circumstances of birth aside, Lucis Caelum Omegas were jealously guarded and protected. There had never been a situation where an omega was born either outside the main line, or with an older alpha sibling. There would be issues of succession, of marriage, and alliances, and –

He glanced over to the teenager as he snickered, playing tug of war with one of the sahagin hatchlings using a stick.

Cor was just a Crownsguard first gen of Refugee stock with dull mottled brown wings, a gil a dozen. Even with his stellar record, there was no chance anyone would even _look_ at him. Especially not him.

* * *

It was an innocuous comment, completely off hand, clearly not even _thought_ about, but all the same it drew the entire Retinue to a stop with confusion and surprise.

“Wait,” Weskham requested, peering at the young omega perched on his rock as he watched them, “Do you – mean to say that you know a different symbolism to wing colours?” he asked curiously.

Harry frowned at him, “No? I know what breed of _bird_ they came from,” he corrected.

“That's not possible,” Clarus refuted, shaking his head, “They don't exist anymore. When the Astrals gave us wings it was at the sacrifice of those birds.”

“That's.... horrible,” the omega decided with a grimace, “Your eco-system must have tanked hardcore, considering.”

“What wings do we have, Harry?!” Regis asked enthusiastically, fluttering over and stretching them out eagerly.

“Black swan,” he stated. “They're native to warmer climates, water-birds, fairly large, and aggressive. They have bone spurs on their wing joints that they use to beat predators away, and enough wing strength to break someone's spine. They're pretty uncommon where I live, we have white swans pretty much everywhere though. They're the same, but a bit bigger.”

Regis hummed, “Perhaps the Oracles have white swan wings?” he suggested, looking at Clarus, “Our wings are pretty much identical save for the colour.”

He nodded, “Sounds likely. Hey, what about me?” he asked curiously.

“Albatross,” Harry said. “Largest sea bird going. They're considered sacred amongst fishermen and sailors. They're also considered ill omens as well. It depends on who you ask and what tales you hear. But they're storm fliers and fishers.” He didn't wait for the others to ask before pointing at Cid, “Scarlet macaw parrot. Tropical seed-eating birds, highly intelligent, but bad tempered. Talkative. They're great sound mimics.” He pointed at Weskham, “Kingfisher. Precision hunters. About three to five inches in size. They perch above rivers, streams, and ponds, and dive down to spear small fish with their beaks before resurfacing and flying back out.” He then pointed at Cor, “Golden Eagle. Largest bird in my home country, very rare, easily the most impressive. They're the quietest and largest of the eagle family, and one of the best fliers. Able to reach two hundred miles an hour during steep dives. They're not _common_ but there were a few nests near my school, we'd sometimes have the young ones try to catch the balls we were playing with during practice,” he admitted with a grin.

Looks were exchanged and Regis coughed into a hand to hide a grin, “So, what you're saying is.... Cor's got the most impressive wings?” he asked 'curiously'.

Harry gave him a suspicious frown. “.....I don't like that tone of voice, but, objectively speaking, yes.”

Clarus frowned, “Oi. Thought you said the albatross was the biggest bird going?” he demanded.

“Biggest sea bird,” the omega corrected with a wary look at him, not noticing the smug gleeful look on Regis' face as he sidled up to his young bodyguard who looked like he didn't know what to do with himself. “And I don't know if anyone's ever told you this, but size isn't everything. It's how you use it,” he quipped sarcastically, making Clarus splutter and lean back as Cid _roared_ with laughter and Regis and Cor choked, while Weskham placed a hand on his head.

“You – you cannot say such things, Harry,” the Retainer told him faintly.

He gave the man a dry look, “You've never attended a public school, have you?” he asked calmly, fighting off a smirk because holy shit the twins would have eaten him alive.

The Retainer shook his head, “You are _Royalty_, Harry,” he stressed weakly, “Saying such things when we return to Insomnia will – ”

“Hold up,” he commanded shortly, causing the Retinue to pause. “I'm not going anywhere. The fuck are you on about, 'return to Insomnia'?”

Cid smirked and leaned back in his seat, there we go. Show time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There will be more in this verse later. Because I have a lot more planned. I love Wing!AUs and this actually has some pretty good reasons and some of the world building amuses me.


	5. Pactio

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Negima! Crossover, Accidental Kissing, Mentions of Slavery.
> 
> Pactio Contracts are a Big Deal. No matter what Regis Lucis Caelum and his fucking HAREM have to say about it.

“Are you _out_ of your mind?” Harry asked sharply, glaring up from under the brim of his pointed hat at the Magister Magi Prince.

Prince Regis Lucis Caelum the 113th just laughed like the airheaded simpleton he was more assuredly _not_. “You don't have one yet, right? Take one of mine. It'll be dangerous to go alone with how they're targeting you,” he explained with a grin.

Harry lifted a finger at him, “One, don't talk about them like fucking objects. Two, I've managed fine so far, I don't _need_ a Forward. And Three, you are not nearly as subtle as you like to think you are!” he finished hotly, pointedly not looking at the Magi's highly amused HAREM of pactio partners – one of which he was currently trying to push on Harry, and had been for weeks now ever since he landed in the magical world after pursuing a cult of demon worshipping summoners through an illegal War Gate. Waking up, literally, worlds away from where he should have been, surrounded by hostiles was – well, not the _strangest_ or most dangerous thing to have happened to him, but it was definitely the most inconvenient.

“It isn't a big deal,” Clarus, the huge sword and shield wielding Royal Knight, said with a condescending grin of amusement, as if he hadn't been rasied for his position as Regis' primary Forward since childhood.

He shot the guy a scathing look, “You guys might be willing to enter into magically binding contracts willy nilly but I am not,” he snapped.

“Aww, c'mon, what's wrong with Cor?” Regis whined in amusement, practically draping himself over the shoulders of his youngest Forward. “Check out this prime slab of Lucian Beef Steak!” he exclaimed, slapping his palms on the swordsman's chest from behind.

Harry scowled, feeling himself beginning to flush because he _had_. But appreciating a view meant nothing in the grand scheme of things.

“He's housebroken, quiet, he cooks, he cleans – ” the Prince continued enthusiastically.

“You talk like a slave auctioneer,” Harry bit out unhappily, remembering the last town he passed through and the open air event that Clarus literally had to pick him up and remove him from before he started setting things on fire. Unfortunately, slavery was legal in the Magical World, it was _taxed_ and _regulated_. There were Health and Safety Laws and everything. It was _voluntary_. Apparently.

Regis paused for a moment, and then his eyes went wide and he yanked his hands away from his young partner, “Cor – I'm sorry – I didn't mean to – ” he spluttered, distressed.

“Idiot,” the other teenager grunted, rapping his knuckles against the Prince's skull. “I know you didn't. It's fine.”

Harry rolled his eyes and returned to his potion making. Regis was right in one respect only, and that was in how having a Forward was safer for a back-line Magister Magi like Harry happened to be. A Forward would protect him while he incanted high-level spells. But Harry had been working alone as a Dark Wizard Catcher since he was ten and graduated from Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry and received his enchanted diploma telling him the next step in his training. The Aurors had attempted to assign him partners before, but none of them could keep up with him, or were bad fits _personality _wise. He had been assigned multiple potential partners, but meshed with only the one of them. Had considered only the one – and then Cedric up and _died_ on him. He was the best fit with Harry's preferred combat, he was able to keep up, at least until.... Harry had actually been hopeful at the end of their trial period. Cedric already had a girlfriend in one of Harry's previous prospective partners, so theirs was not going to be a _romantically_ based partnership but a familial one and, gods, he had wanted it.

Which was probably why his death cut so deep, and why Harry swore off partners forever.

He covered his own inadequacies by using tools, potions, catalysts, preprepared spells, and delayed incantations. He actually became quite famous for it in the Old World, one of the most feared Dark Wizard Catchers because by using those things, they never saw him coming. They didn't feel the build up of magic that incanted magic gave off. Sometimes if they were particularly sensitive they could sense his _static_ magic, but he had been getting better at concealing and suppressing it – which had the unfortunate side effect of giving him an entirely different reputation here in the Magical World.

They believed he was the weak link of the Retinue. Because he never used high-level magic, they thought he had weak magic, so targeted him most during combat in the hopes of taking him hostage and negotiating with the Retinue for whatever it was they wanted. Or attempting to lay traps, trick them, etc, etc.

Joke was on them.

Harry had more magic than Regis did. He just couldn't bring it to bear because the Arcane level magic spells had incantations that went into the _paragraphs_. It was a lot to memorise, and an _awful_ lot to say.

It was intensely aggravating.

But it was also why he was now incanting _high-level enchantments_ into his 'Serious Business' magically reactive Catalysts.

Keeping the magic steady as it syphoned into the fluid was the hard part. His feet had already left the ground, along with several ingredients, tools, and several loose stones from their surroundings – thankfully the cauldron was too dense with the force of the magic flowing into it that it was actually threatening to smother the flames beneath it instead of fly off into the air.

Unlike the Magical World mages who often used Latin and Greek magic for their high-level magic, Harry had gone further and looked into old Gaelic for his spells. With Hermione as one of his research buddies, the two of them had ended up with the widest repertoire of spells in a graduating class for three hundred years just between the two of them. They were required to master only nine spells to graduate Hogwarts, the two of them had learned thirty between themselves, mastering fifteen of them _each_.

Hermione found her pactio partner fairly quickly when she started campaigning to end Slavery and stamp out corruption in the magical government, Ron Weasley was the youngest son of Arthur Weasley who was from a sister branch of the Aurors, the Misuse of Artefacts Office, who would go out and deal with improperly enchanted objects, or artefacts that got into the hands of non-magicals. Harry had liked the red head straight away when she nervously introduced him to the boy she ended up playing chess with in the cafeteria at the Ministry. Neither Ron nor Hermione had liked the prospective partner the Aurors pushed onto him, Draco Malfoy, and he hadn't liked them, revealing his true colours as a Purist when he insulted them both. It got him booted from the department, no matter what his daddy said or paid.

Harry missed them like a toothache, he realised sadly as he tied off the last of his incantation, setting a delayed spell and a trigger release into it. And all the magic in the air suddenly cut, and he landed, having to catch several ingedients before they could drop into the cauldron and make the spell he just filled it with _pop_.

Clarus shook his head in disgust, “All that power, and you refuse to use it to your full potential,” he lamented in frustration.

Harry scoffed, beginning to ladle the potion out into an easy break crystal phial for use later. “Find me someone who can keep up with me and won't _die_ like the last one, and I might consider it,” he snapped, thoroughly fed up of the conversation already.

He corked the phial – and almost stabbed it into Regis' face when the Prince promptly picked him up, ignoring the startled flailing, and shouting, and physically dropped him into Cor's lap – much to both of their embarrassed horror and surprise.

“There you go. Someone with more lives than a Melynx who can keep up with you on the field,” he announced proudly as Harry attempted to scramble away only to get his robes tabled with the swordsman's armour.

“That's not – you can't just – ” he spluttered, flailing ineffectively and only succeeding in knocking his hat off. “Don't you have anything to say about this?” he finally demanded, staring at Cor in frazzled desperation. Surely he would have objections to a pactio between them. He _already_ had one with Regis! Which, god, Harry had some _Opinions_ about that he didn't want to particularly think about right now.

The swordsman glanced to one side, not at Regis, before looking back at Harry with a thoughtful frown on his face as he absently untangled himself from Harry's robe, but did not push him off. “I don't fully understand the Old World's customs or culture regarding pactio arrangements. I can tell they are different just by your reaction – but not how.”

Harry groaned in frustration, of course, “I'm a little _old_ to play the field, so to speak, when it comes to pactio,” he pointed out, red and embarrassed. “At this point it's pretty much the equivalent – fuck I can't believe I have to explain this, how the hell is it viewed _here?!_” he demanded, too embarrassed to finish.

Weskham rubbed his chin, “Typically, it is a business contract. Many mercenaries sign on as partners to Magister Magi during quest using a probationary contract arranged at a vendor. For others, such as myself, Clarus, and Cor, it is simply swearing fealty to a Noble, or Royal, house as only they have the permission to study magic in Lucis,” the cat-eared Retainer explained.

Clarus snorted, “the way you talk makes it sound like a marriage proposal,” he laughed, and Harry jammed his hat back on, pulling the large brim down to hide his burning face.

“It _**Is**_!” he snapped, groaning. “When you're over sixteen, it pretty much _is_ a proposal to suggest Pactio!”

“Even better!” Regis laughed. “Cor's only been ass over tit for you since you met – ACK!”

“Your Highness!”

“HAHAHA SERVES YOU RIGHT!!”

Harry groaned as absolute bedlam erupted around him as Cor attempted to murder the Prince, Clarus tried to stop them but was laughing too much, Regis only made matters worse by exclaiming how he was only trying to help, _you can barely talk to him but everyone and their dogs can see how much you want to bang that like a barn door in a hurricane – _**REGIS!** And now Weskham was involved.

He got to his feet, finished corking his potions into phials, tucked them away in storage cards, and decided he'd had enough for the night and went to crawl into bed.

Only for Regis to bounce around him, grab his shoulders, twirl him around, and then shove him at Cor.

It resulted in the two of them crashing into each other, Harry bouncing off and landing on his back, and Cor stumbling forward, landing on top of him –

Mouth to mouth.

“YES!” Regis yelled gleefully as a bright white light burst up off the haven beneath them.

The two jerked apart with red faces as a card shimmered into existence between them. A card that Regis snatched up before either of them had a chance to see it.

“OOOH! IT'S DIFFERENT!! WESK – WESK – IT'S _DIFFERENT!_” he crowed, waving it around.

“You – ” Harry growled, bright red, and snapped his hand out three times, summoning a minor wind sprite to snatch the card away.

“Ah! Aww,” the Prince whined in disappointment as Harry snapped it out of the air, banishing the sprite, and then turned around, grabbing Cor's arm and dragging him away from the camp.

“We need to _talk_,” he growled because he had better _hope_ that this had not been prearranged without his consent. Thankfully it looked as though they had managed to squeak through a probationary contract instead of a full one, otherwise this would be a _very_ different conversation.

He heard Cid and Weskham stop the Royal Menace from following them, and mentally vowed to do something nice for the two of them at the first opportunity.

When they were far enough away for privacy he stopped and dropped the swordsman's hand like it burned before rounding on him, jabbing a finger into his (distressingly firm) chest, “Was that planned?” he hissed, stung and uncomfortable and _hurt_.

Cor shook his head, “Absolutely not. I – ” He grimaced and tipped his head to the side a little. “I can't speak for the others, but I had no knowledge or intention of doing this without your permission.”

He frowned, “Permission?”

The swordsman went pink and looked down to the side, “Only if you were willing,” he muttered in embarrassment.

Harry flushed, “Well. I wasn't willing. And your friends are _assholes_,” he snapped, flicking the card at him. To have his first kiss like _that_, to form a _Pactio_ like _that_. Ginny would never let him live it down when she found out. When she wasn't flirting with the both of them.

Cor caught the card and peered at it with mild curiosity. “....Immortal Lion.... that's new,” he read in annoyance, pulling a face.

Despite himself, Harry couldn't help but look. He knew very little about Pactio cards. But he knew that 'Gold/Aurum' was considered insanely rare and valuable. Cor had a red and gold card. Meaning that it was rare, and combat focused. He had the number three in numerals in the corner of his card, the Shiva star-sign, and the Messenger Odin. His picture was an action pose, wearing his Royal Guard uniform without the veil and hood, with – oh hell. The sword of Gryffindor in one hand, and the scabbard of Excalibur in the other. 'Immortal Lion' indeed. With that fucking scabbard he literally _was_ immortal. It prevented the wielder from coming to harm. And _why the ever loving fuck did he have the Sword of Gryffindor?! Harry didn't remember marrying the bast-_

oh no

Cor didn't noticed as he pulled two cards from his breast pocket. Both Pactio cards. Both different.

The first was a similar red and gold card with the same numbers and astrology, but the figure was a scowling thirteen year old in army fatigues wielding the familiar Genji blade. The other was of a slightly older boy, in a Crownsguard uniform, wielding – oh heck, the crystalline Katana of the Warrior, a Royal Armiger Weapon and, Harry was going to take the secret to his fucking _grave_, but the weapon of the Lucis Caelum that birthed the bastard line that married into the Old World Peverell family that eventually became the Potters.

“I don't recognise this sword,” the teenager admitted, before looking up at him and pausing. “....You do.”

Harry coughed awkwardly, “Ahh, yeah. It's the – well, the scabbard is the – look, don't let anyone from the Old World see that card, okay?” he pleaded with a grimace, “Don't even use it. Ever.”

Cor frowned at him before looking a little closer at the shining silver scabbard encrusted with rubies, gold, and yellow topaz, wrapped in what looked like soft scarlet leather, or velvet. “....Why?” he asked suspiciously.

He laughed semi hysterically, “Because everyone and their fucking mothers will try to enslave you for it?” he pointed out, voice going a little high. He gestured the guy closer and leaned in close, cupping hands around his ear to make sure no one heard, “You got the fucking scabbard of Excalibur. It _literally_ makes you immortal. Can you imagine what people will do to get hold of that?” he whispered.

He drew back slowly, obviously understanding by how wide his eyes had gone. “Right. And the sword?”

Harry pressed his lips together, “Yes. It's the Sword of Gryffindor. One of the four founders of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. He was a very famous Minister Magi,” he explained. The fable of how the Founders fell out was famous in the Old World, not so in the Magical one, and Harry didn't particularly feel like explaining it. He pulled his hat off to drag a hand through his hair, he wanted to cancel the contract, however, the quest Cor was on with Regis was incredibly dangerous. He.... didn't really want to take away the scabbard from him now that there was a guaranteed 'no dying' failsafe. He knew the idiot would shove it at Regis in a heartbeat if the shit hit the fan but.... the Sword of Gryffindor was Goblin forged, Old World Goblin forged. It was unbreakable and would take the strength of whatever it slayed and make it its own.

“We aren't married,” Cor suddenly stated.

“What?” Harry blurted, surprised.

The swordsman tucked the two original cards away and muttered a short incantation that made the third split into two, the original he returned to Harry. “You said Pactio was akin to marriage in the Old World for people our age. This doesn't mean we're married, and we don't have to do anything you aren't comfortable with,” he promised firmly, blue eyes boring into green intensely. “With the way the Bounty Hunters have been targeting you lately, it would have only been a matter of time. You're good, you're _incredible_. But they only have to be lucky once. I'd like to keep the Pactio, at least until this quest is over, or you decide to leave our group. Some protection is better than none,” he explained.

Harry's heart gave a hard thump in his chest and he folded his arms, turning away with a scowl even as he felt his face begin to heat up again. Smooth fucking bastard.

“Fine. But don't come crying to me when you get your fool-self killed,” he grumbled.

Cor smiled, “I'll take my chances.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I would like to stress that this is an AU, and any connections/fusions have nothing to do with Hated XDDD So don't go letting your conspiracy brains run wild guys. 
> 
> Also, I surprisingly like this. I may revisit it later on. XDDD Cor ending up with the Scabbard of Excalibur was a stroke of genius because I couldn't think of a pactio artefact to suit him, I was thinking of giving him Kusanagi before I remembered that Excalibur's scabbard made you LITERALLY immortal. How very appropriate for Cor. And for Harry to be the Magister to enable it given his Arthurian roots. XDDD And yes, he is the stereotypical wizard, long flowing robes, big pointy hat, staff. Because it's cute. Picture tiny Harry with a BIG HAT, LOTSA ROBE, and a mAHOOSIVE staff. That he occasionally cracks over people's skulls if they try to interrupt his spell casting. Unfortunately spells go haywire when you do that so he had to figure out other ways to deal with them.


	6. Taste You on my Tongue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tags: Alternative-Sentinel!Dynamics, Sentinel!Cor, Guide!Harry, Guide!Cid, Guide!Kimya, Sentinel!Ezma, Magical-Bonding, Animalistic!Traits, Cor!POV, Unreliable!Narrator  
Warnings: Ezma's A+ Personality. I don't know anything about fandom Sentinel tropes but I watched the TV series like 15 years ago and this is based off what little I remember that I am now carving up for juicy bits.
> 
> Cor has been a Sentinel for years. It has not been easy.

****For the record, Cor Leonis hated this.

It was more _tolerable_ outside of Insomnia, he was grateful for that freedom at the very least, but it did _not_ change the fact that he was separated from his King, his Unit, his Territory, and forced into close quarters with three grown ass men with their heads firmly implanted up their assholes, and a grouchy old Guide who seemed to take personal offence whenever Cor's self-control slipped and he zoned out. One would think, as such an aged Guide, that Cid Sophiar would know it was not Cor's fault, and that he would also know that despite being fifteen the young Sentinel could read his scent and facial twitches like a fucking book.

Weskham's food was ill-suited to Sentinel eating habits, too spicy, too creamy, too herby, overpowering in both taste, textures, and scent. No, that was actually uncharitable. Wesk's cooking was fine, it was delicious, to normal people. Those few occasions where Cor's instincts weren't running high and his senses weren't on hyperdrive, he could eat the Retainer's food no problem. It _was_ delicious. But when his body decided to switch itself on, only a Guide could pull him back down, and Cid was ill-tempered to do so. Cor would just eat what raw plants and insects he found, and discreetly dispose of Weskham's food so as not to offend the man.

Clarus put out so much musk it was honestly suffocating sometimes, whenever a pretty thing with nice legs and a cute face went past the air got _heavy_ with his interest and Cor had to start holding his breath. If his senses keyed into that scent he could fucking _taste_ it and, ugh. No. No thank you. He had lived with enough of that when he rejoined the army and ended up sleeping on the roof of the barracks, unable to stomach swimming in the sewer of sweat, body odour, arousal and ejaculate that layered the air inside. He was also a condescending bastard who was incapable of respecting him unless it was to do with combat, and even then it was hit and miss.

Regis, the Prince, he tried. His father must have spoken to him before Cor was assigned to them because despite _having_ expensive colognes and scented powders, he never used them without watering them down heavily. He kept his voice low whenever Cor's senses keyed up, telegraphed his movements, and would practically command Cid to pull him back if he noticed a zone out. Thankfully, Cor was good at _not_ zoning out. He had been good enough that his Superior Officer reassigned him to Insomnia to be the King's personal bodyguard, as was the normal procedure for Sentinels when they 'switched on', and got a good enough handle of their senses that they could handle a city. Of course, the only Sentinels who got that far were the weak ones or the ones who had Guides.

Cor was neither.

His reassignment to join Regis outside of Insomnia was as much of a mercy as King Mors could give him. At least out in Lucis the ambient noises didn't cause him physical pain.

Still, despite the change, he didn't realise how much strain the current situation with the rest of the Retinue was putting him under until they hit the Vesperpool, and every single sense he had _flared_.

He zoned out, going slack in his seat between Regis and Clarus as they drove down the raised bridge that circled the Vesperpool. Regis exclaiming over the potential fishing in the lake and couldn't they make a pit-stop Weskham, pleeeeease?

Smell.... Black tea. Parchment. Ink. Feathers. Enclosed spaces and strange chemicals. Gunpowder. Leather. Wisteria perfume. Honing oil. Poison. Blood. He could taste it, on the back of his tongue. Something musky, male, young, sweating with exertion.

A young voice, grunting with exertion, the occasional sharp cry of effort, the heavy thud and sing of blades cutting through air and then flesh, death shrieks of fiends and the rustling of many legs and undergrowth. Heavy boots crunching on dirt and stone, harsh panting breaths.

Dead mushussu littered the undergrowth. Shot, stabbed, _clubbed_.

Boot prints in mud.

Size nines. Worn almost flat. Second hand. Uneven weight distribution. The toes scuffed, the boots were too big for the one wearing them.

Everything went dark and he gasped, inhaling sharply enough to choke and everything went orange and painful and voices roared in his ears.

Cid's hand latched onto his knee, nails digging in, and it was like ice crept up his nerves from that point of contact, pulling him under a quiet cold tide, until he could breathe again.

He shook violently, every nerve ending tingling with awareness despite the cold press of Cid's presence trying to smother the sensitivity. Zoning out was always exhausting, so much energy burned by tuning every sense he had to ten. Right now though, it felt as though they had dialled it up and beyond, breaking the dial off entirely.

He was hyperventilating. He could tell.

Then the smell of wisteria filled his nose and everything went quiet.

“There we go,” a soft female voice crooned, a thick Cleigne accent clinging to her words as balm cool hands smoothed over his cheeks and lifted his head to look at her.

The Regalia had stopped, they were in Meldacio, and there was a Guide in front of him. She smiled sweetly at him, in her mid-thirties, her long auburn red hair pulled back into a neat ponytail. She smelt like wisteria perfume. Ever so faintly. Watered down like Regis had begun to do with his cologne, but better. Smoother. There was no harsh chemical tang to the smell as she pulled away and climbed out of the empty car.

“Cor?” Regis murmured in concern from the doorway, “Are you alright?” he asked breathily, obviously trying to keep his voice down so as not to aggravate the headache he would normally he battling with right now.

He nodded, bewildered despite himself.

He had been pulled out of a Zone before now, but both Cid and the sarcastic Guide in his unit had always left him with the shakes, headaches, and heartburn. This was the first time he had been pulled out and – felt settled.

“ – ill-suited t'th'usual kinds'a Guide,” the woman was explaining to Cid as he shakily climbed out of the car, “S'not yer failin' in yer duties, sir. S'jest ya probably ain't never had t'deal with a fully awakened wild Sentinel, have ya?” she asked cheerfully, the old mechanic shaking his head. She nodded, “I see it a lot with th'Hunters here an' abouts. We sometimes see it in a few a'th'soldiers, but they don'like it when we try t'explain th'way they do things don't work fer 'em.”

“What do you mean?” Cor asked, gripping the Regalia door tightly, the cool metal giving a little under his hand.

She turned to him with a kind smile of understanding. “Insomnia don't get many Sentinels, do they?” she asked instead, watching as heads were shaken, “They're all induced, ain't they? Those folk what go in't'isolation in th'hopes a'force awakenin' 'emselves. City Shockers, we call 'em. Urban Sentinels. They're a different breed'aSentinel t'Naturals, th'ones that awaken by accident out here in th'wilderness, in th'darks.” She smiled at him, “I knew as soon as I felt ya comin', yer like m'sister, Ezma. Wild born. Yer ill-suited t'th'kind'a'Guide that Mister Sophiar is, is all. Jest like there are City Sentinels, there are City Guides too. Tryin't'pair a City Guide with a Wild Sentinel is like....” She hummed trying to think of a good metaphor.

“Tryin'a'put out a house fire with a waterin' can,” a second female voice interrupted, making the group turn, and Cor tense up at the sight of the older Sentinel. She was a powerful looking woman, very similar to her sister, with sharper eyes and broader shoulders, wearing hunter leathers and sturdy boots instead of the blouse and skirts that her sister wore. “Not only is yer man too weak of a Guide, but 'e's th'wrong _kind_ fer a Sentinel like him,” she announced eyeing Cor with something that looked bordered aggression, anger, and a little bit of jealousy. She then looked Regis straight in the eye, “Ya've partnered a Goat t'a'coeurl. Yer gunna lose him to a Zone if ya don't find him a half decent Guide soon, preferably somethin' that can keep up with 'im. 'e's already goin' off his food, soon his Zonin'll be too strong t'pull him out of by yer Guide.”

“What?!” yelps went up amidst the Retinue as Cor grimaced and looked away. He knew his Zoning was getting more aggressive lately, but it had died down so much after he left Insomnia he thought it was getting better. Back there, he would Zone twice, sometimes three or even five times a day. He was usually able to bring himself out of it, but on occasion he needed the Guard Guide to pull him back, but now that he was _out_ of the city, it had dropped down to maybe once or twice every three days and that was _good_. It was better. He _had_ been going off his food, and yes, sleep had been getting difficult with the way his blankets had been scraping like sandpaper on his skin and the sound of breathing and heartbeats was like wardrums vibrating in his chest, head, and roaring in his ears.

Okay. Maybe he hadn't been doing so well.

“I can keep up,” he grit out, feeling the sick swoop of shame in the pit of his stomach, “It's fine.”

The female Sentinel scoffed irritably and then, he didn't know what she did, what that _sound_ even was. She put her fingers to her cheeks and blew out, some weird whistling popping _vibrating_ noise coming out of her that immediately made everything go sideways and his –

“ – dangerous!” Regis thundered.

Cor shuddered, blinking back into himself and the nice Guide lady crouched in front of him, her hands on his face, her expression pained as he focused on her, the smell of wisteria in his nose.

“I'm so sorry 'bout m'sister,” she murmured, Sentinel quiet, Cor actually had to strain to hear her over the sound of Regis and the other woman shouting at each other. “She – she ain't got much patience fer explainin' things. A – a practical demonstration was th'fastest way t'get ya t'understand,” she explained as she ran her fingers down the side of his face, he had – read about things like that. Guide sometimes 'tuning' a Sentinel's senses after a Zone out to focus on a physical sensation they were currently feeling that was controlled by the Guide themselves. A focusing technique. And a – a synchronising one. She probably hadn't realised she had done it, or if she did notice, it was purely for his own benefit.

“Uh,” an unfamiliar voice interrupted, “Is there a problem?” the young male voice asked with steadily firmer tones.

Cor turned his head and froze at the sight of the teenage boy stood on the fridges of the group, plastered with mud, blood, and wet, sweating, smelling of death and green things, wisteria and ink and parchment and tea, with thick coarse uncared for black hair, pale faintly freckled skin and long black eyelashes. His eyes were so green. A hundred different shades all in the same iris, bottle green, grass green, malachite, jade green, process green, ivy green, moss green, sea green.

He was distantly aware of everyone talking but it was a distant consideration as he opened his mouth and _tasted_ the sweat and salt and blood on the young man's skin even from this distance away. Tasted his emotions, the wariness, confusion, exhaustion, stress, sleepless nights, and homesickness.

“Are you alright?” the boy asked, frowning at him from barely three feet away as everyone headed into the Auburnbrie house, tilting his head carefully to look up at him in the eye, sweaty hair moved stiffly in strands, catching the light, turning into shades of red and gold and caramel and hazel and mahogany and

He swallowed and nodded, “Fine,” he rasped, breathing shallowly. He was so close, he could smell the bread and peaches the teenager had eaten earlier that day, the distant memory of toothpaste and the wisteria scented soap lingering on his skin, not perfume, soap, made from flowers. His skin was smooth, glittery with drying sweat, smears of drying mud making him smell fresh and green and living and

“No, seriously, you don't look so good,” the teenager said, voice reverberating with concern, scent souring with sudden anxiety. He reached out a laid a hand against Cor's forehead, “You've – ”

The boy crumpled as soon as he touched skin, his calm cool hand, and Cor blacked out with him.

* * *

Regis hovered.

Cor was sweating and panting, his blue eyes blown wide and dark, hovering on the very edges of a Zone out as he did everything he could to focus on here and now. It was so obvious now that Madam Auburnbrie had pointed it out to them, Cid had been growing more and more frustrated with his inability to prevent the Zone Outs, with his ability to even sense them. Right now, even with the Sentinel behind him shaking like a leaf, the old man was oblivious, practically hanging on Lady Auburnbrie's every word as she tried to coach him through assisting a Wild Sentinel on a Zone Out. Her sister's grip on her wrist blanking her to Cor's distress, though the older woman was clearly not ignorant to it if the way she was looking at Regis with her chin lifted in challenge was any indication.

The young man living with them had even noticed if the way he edged closer to Cor was any indication, looking worried.

“Are you alright?” the delicate looking fifteen year old hunter asked with a clear cut Tenebraean accent.

Cor swallowed, eyes tracking the other teenager with desperate hunger, “Fine,” he croaked, breathing deeply through his open mouth even as his nose twitched a little. Regis grimaced, his father had _warned_ him about Sentinels, that they needed careful handling, that while he was out in Lucis he needed to find a proper Guide for Cor.

The boy shook his head, “No, seriously, you don't look so good,” the teenager refuted, eyebrows knitting together in a frown as he reached out, “You've – ”

Like someone had just _shot_ him, the child dropped like a stone, mid-sentence, mid-step. His eyes rolling back and his whole body crumpling. Cor gave a strangled keen even as his knees buckled.

Regis yelped and caught them both, the sudden weight causing him to stagger and fall into Clarus, the four of them toppling into the dirt of the Auburnbries' front garden, into the middle of the flowerbeds.

“What?! L-Lady Auburnbrie! _Lady Auburnbrie!!_” the Prince yelped, as Clarus struggled up, pushing him upright, his arms filled with teenagers. The Shield looking just as wide-eyed and freaked out as him as he checked the two over.

The woman rushed out of the cottage and froze at the sight of the four of them, her hand jumping up over her mouth.

“What – what is going on, Lady Auburnbrie?” he asked plaintively, looking down at the two slumped into him. “The Tenebraean young man, he only touched Cor's forehead and they both just – ”

Madam Auburnbrie appeared behind her sister, and her face spasmed at the sight in front of her, “I _knew_ it!” she snarled, making her sister near enough jump out of her skin. “YA TOLD ME HE WEREN'T!” she snarled at her sister.

“I – I didn't know 'e was!” she protested, looking distressed and kind of miserable.

“Sahagin shit!” the Sentinel snapped as her sister rushed over to the pair laid out on the floor, “Yer a Guide yerself! How could ya not know when – ”

“It isn't like Dave presented!” Lady Auburnbrie snapped over her shoulder, glaring at her sister even as she fussed over the pair, “Yer th'only other Sentinel here, an' we're bonded whether we like it or not! It ain't like he had th'chance t'manifest!” she barked bitterly at the older Sentinel.

“David is – jest a late bloomer!” Madam Auburnbrie defended. “Ya had 'im share a bedroom with an untethered Guide!”

“Oh stop kiddin' yerself, Ezma!” Kimya snapped, “Davie ain't ever gunna be a Sentinel! No matter how hard ya push 'im, or hurt 'im, 'e ain't gunna – ”

“ENOUGH!” Regis thundered, causing the two to flinch and look at him, “I do not care for your family squabbles at this time, Madam, Lady! A member of my Retinue has just collapsed! I want answers!” he commanded.

Lady Auburnbrie withered a little, “A'course yer Highness, my apologies,” she said with a bowed head as her sister hrrumphed and stormed back into the cottage, shoving Cid out of her way as she did so with a dismissive sneer. “Yer lil' Sentinel here, seems 'e's found a compatible Guide,” she explained gesturing to the young man with the Tenebraean accent. “I – I had no idea Harry was a Guide. I am so sorry, yer Highness, 'e's never had any trainin' I don't – aside from Ezma, I don'think 'e's ever encountered another Sentinel, or heard th'term outside a'Meldacio.”

“What does this mean for Cor?” Clarus asked looking down at the two, at the way Cor leaned into the teenager even while unconscious.

The woman rubbed her mouth with a hand, “I – I couldn'tell ya fer certain. Ezma didn'give me much of a choice when she first awakened. She was m'sister. We already had a bond an' I could already pull her outta th'Zonin'. It jest grew organic'ly from there. I've only read about bondin' like this in books. Yer boy was in bad shape, either 'e was in a lot worse shape than we realised, or Harry's either ridiculously compatible t'im or an incredibly strong Guide. I can't say fer sure.”

“What happens now?” Weskham asked with a worried frown at the two.

She sighed, “Sleep. They'll – well, they're bondin' right now. Yer Sentinel's gunna be _clingy_ fer a few days when he wakes up. Th'Zonin' won't stop jest yet, but he'll be Zonin' on Harry here exclusively until 'e's completely tuned t'him. There, erm, may be some _bleedin'_ – ”

“Blood?!” Regis squawked, hugging the pair tightly.

“No no! Not blood-bleedin'!” Kimya exclaimed, shaking her head. “It's – well, it's one a'th'big differences between City an' Wild Sentinels,” she explained with an apologetic look to Cid. “When ma sister called ya a Goat, it weren't jest t'be insultin'. All Guides an' Sentinels have.... an inner animal, so t'speak. It's where that 'animal instinct' comes from. Sentinels use 'em physically, Guides use 'em spiritually, but we've all got 'em. Th' difference is, City dwellers can't use 'em. They're too.... useless,” she explained with a grimace. “Their instincts are dull, pale, an' almost all City Sentinels an' Guides have _domesticated_ animals. Makin' 'em even paler. Some a'th'stronger ones'll have the like a'Guard Dogs or birds a'prey, things trained t'protect or t'find an'hunt. But Wild Guides an' Sentinels? They got _wild_ animals. Their instincts are gunna be bigger, stronger, _meaner_. When I say there's gunna be bleedin' I mean, they're gunna get a lil'bestial.”

Clarus frowned down at the two, “...How bestial?” he asked warily.

She shrugged helplessly, “Depends on them, an' you. How ya react. Yer lad there's a coeurl if I ever saw one. Harry,” she shook her head then, “I couldn't tell ya, I didn'even know 'e was a Guide until now.” She looked at the fifteen year old with a complicated expression. “But if they're bondin' then it'll be somethin' on par.”

Regis tightened his grip on the two, already he could feel that Cor's body temperature had lowered from what it had been in the car, he no longer felt feverish to the touch. Just warm.

“What would you recommend for the next few days, Lady Auburnbrie?” Weskham asked.

“Stay in one place. Give th'two a'them some space, an privacy. Awakenin' as a Sentinel is done in isolation, they're intensely private people, an' yer boy probably won't settle until 'e's had some _proper_ alone time t'sync up t'his Guide. Don't be – uh, _surprised_ by any compromisin' positions. I heard its common in unrelated pairs,” she added warningly. “Aside from that.... Don't touch Harry,” she begged, looking up at them. “'e's... 'e's a good boy, an' 'e's had a hard life. I can feel it. Guides are usually taught from birth how t'hide their feelin's, s'why I didn't twig t'him bein' one. 'e wears his heart on his sleeve, an' its been hurt. 'e flinches from men what move too fast around him, when voices get raised, I think ya can figure th'rest out from there.” She reached out and smoothed his hair from his face. “Jest.... talk t'him.”

“Ya jest gunna sit there in th'dirt jawin', or are ya gunna come inside?” Ezma demanded sharply from the doorway, evidently fed up of waiting.

Clarus sighed and knelt down, “I'll take 'em,” he grunted, “Set 'em up in the Caravan. I'll let you know when they wake up,” he promised as he carefully gathered the pair up, raising an eyebrow at the sudden scowl that twisted on Cor's face and how he gripped the other teenager, Harry's, wrist even more tightly.

Two hours later, in the Caravan with his feet up and a book in hand, Clarus had to pause and look over at the pair in bewilderment. They weren't awake yet but had managed to gravitate to each other once he set them down on the doublebed at the back of the sleeping space, stripping the little one of his sodden muddy boots and clothes and substituting them for his own.

When Lady Auburnbrie said Cor would display some bestial traits.... _purring_ had been the last thing he expected.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I will definitely be continuing this one. It was fun and I like the Sentinel mechanics and opportunity to build them up here >8D
> 
> EDIT: Changed Cor's inner animal from lion to Coeurl (as lions don't exist in ffxv)


	7. Splittings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tags: Splittings, pre-slash, Cor/Harry/Cor?
> 
> Cor hears someone sneaking around the camp at night. He did not expect what he found when he followed the bloodied teenager back to his own.

Cor woke to the sound of footsteps outside the tent.

He was the only one that did. Cid was snoring fit to cover up the ever so slight crunch of light footsteps for anyone that _wasn't_ him, and even then, it was a miracle that he did wake. Whoever it was, they were damn quiet. Cor carefully manoeuvred himself upright and out of his blankets, timing his movements with Cid's thunderous snorts to cover any noise until he was peeking out through the tiny gap in the tent opening.

In the light of the haven below and the full moon above, it wasn't hard to make out the skinny ragged teenager covered in dry blood and filth as he quickly and carefully stole some of their left over stew. Ladling it into a wide-necked canteen bottle, casting furtive looks around before silently re-covering the pot and turning to slip away.

His back was _black_ with blood.

The boy didn't even have a weapon and he was abandoning the safety of a haven in the dead of night with a canteen of cold stew. That, to him, screamed of a desperate refugee and he _could not_ ignore it. Not when he thought back to his mother and grandfather and the trials that they too must have faced travelling on foot from Niflheim to Insomnia.

He waited just long enough for the boy to be out of hearing range before he unzipped the tent and slipped out after him, boots in hand.

He stumbled a little bit as he tugged them on, mid-step, but otherwise he was able to see the other teenager as he limped speedily across Leide's flatlands, heading north towards Keycatrich.

No. Towards the ruined houses over by the pipe-lines. Cor could see a light behind one of the buildings and the bloodied teenager was making a beeline for it – giving a rather innocuous stretch of land directly between them a _wide_ berth. Not knowing why, and not keen to find out at this time of night when he was trying to be sneaky, Cor did the same, tracing the other boy's footsteps and then veering off a little to creep around the edges of the blown out houses until he had a good visual on – _both of them_.

They were huddled up in the corner of one of the blown out houses, there was some kind of white phosphorus flare burning above them jammed into a crack in the wall, it was probably why they hadn't been attacked by any daemons – light that strong would ward them off no problem. They were both bloodied and filthy, but the brown haired boy propped up against the wall was in the worst shape, his breathing was laboured, his long brown hair was plastered across his face with swear, and the smell of blood was thick in the air as the boy he followed knelt down and carefully woke the other up.

“Here. Food, slip it slowly, it's stew,” he explained softly, a clear-cut Tenebraean accent in his words making Cor twitch with interest. And sympathy. _Definitely_ refugees.

“Y-you...?” the boy he was feeding rasped weakly as the first pushed aside his hair so he wouldn't get it in the food.

“I ate at the camp,” he lied. Cor woke up as soon as he heard the footsteps pass him. But the downed teenager was either too weak to argue or couldn't tell when the first was lying, he began to sip and eat from the canteen, held up by the first boy. “Those glowing stones have magic in them, and people seemed comfortable enough camping out on them without a guard. They're probably safe. If we haven't been found by tomorrow, we'll weather the night there,” the black haired boy explained as he gently tipped the canteen forward and back, giving the brunet time to sip, chew, breathe, and then begin again.

“An-and if – the Dark Lord – is the one who – finds us...”

There was a moment of silence.

“Potter – don't you – dare,” the downed boy rasped, feebly grasping at the first's wrist.

“You're pureblood. If you don't fight, he won't kill you.”

“What – like – he didn't – kill Diggory? Or – the – McKinnons? Or – ” He wheezed, coughing wetly in a way that made Cor grimace in concern. “Or your – father's family?”

The first boy's head bobbed from side to side, “I never said that. I just said you're a pureblood and he _won't_ kill you. Not in front of witnesses. Not when your life is the only reason I'm not going to fight back.”

There was a sick bubbling rasping laugh. “You – don't – even know – my name,” the second boy gasped, hand slipping away to drop into his lap.

“Do I need to?” the first boy asked nonchalantly.

“Gryffindors. You're – all – crazy. I was – going – going to kill – you,” the downed boy gasped.

There was a faint snort of disbelief, “Forgive me if I find that doubtful.” The first boy lowered the now empty canteen and gently manoeuvred the second one back against the wall. “I've gotten pretty good at identifying that sort of thing and, no offence, you don't even register on my threat radar. You wouldn't have followed through, even if you had the chance.”

There was another wet laugh, and Cor got a look at the second boy's bloodied face as the first leaned back.

It was _his face_.

He must have made some kind of noise because the two of them looked over at him and the first boy was immediately on his feet, snatching the flare from the crack in the wall and bringing it forward like a weapon.

“Who's there?” he commanded sharply, enough so that the urge to stand to attention and salute itched at the back of his head for a split second.

“Wait, please. I'm not here to fight,” he called, holding his hands out for a breath before he stepped out into the light.

There were two sharp inhales and he knew they had noticed the uncanny similarity between his facial features and the boy on the ground.

“You got a brother you forgot to mention?” the first boy asked in an undertone, not taking his eyes off Cor.

“N-no,” the second one rasped, “Who – ” he began to ask only for his breath to rattle worryingly and his voice to crack with a faint whine of pain. The first boy edged a bit closer but kept his eyes on Cor despite how much he clearly wanted to check on his doppelgänger. Smart boy. If Cor were hostile he would most definitely use it as an opportunity to attack.

“Staff Sergeant Cor Leonis,” he said, opening his mouth to reel off his division but biting it back. The first boy hadn't known about _havens_. It was unlikely they would know anything about the Lucian Army.

“Wh-what?” the second boy rasped irritably, and the first one whispered something making his copy cough wetly, “He's my age. He – can't be in the muggle – army, Potter. There – are laws – about – child soldiers. Even – I know about – that,” he gasped out.

“Yeaaaah, I don't think we're in Kansas anymore, Toto.”

“What?” he rasped irritably and the first one sighed.

“It's – never mind. Just – okay, Staff Sergeant. What do you want? We're not on military grounds, are we?” he asked warily, and Cor saw his eyes flicker to the blown out building they were hiding in with new trepidation.

“No. This is Leide. I heard you in our camp. I saw the blood and got concerned,” he explained calmly, keeping his hands visible. He just had to de-escalate this, get the downed kid some medical help, hopefully he could convince them to come with him to the haven. Weskham wouldn't mind feeing them up, if he did, Cor would do it instead with his own stuff. But first, even in the blaring light that prevented him from seeing the pair of them clearly, he could see his copy was not in a good way.

There was a long silence.

“Do you have a first aid kit?” the first boy asked suddenly.

“P-Potter....”

“Shh. I'm no Madam Pomfrey, but you need help. This is the best we've found so far, and at least I know what I'm doing with a first aid kit. I can stitch you up no problem, I've had to do it on myself enough times,” he muttered quietly to the brunet.

Cor tried to ignore the sharp stab of worry about how long they had been running from the Empire and what happened to their prior groups if they had been forced to fend for themselves before now. “I have a first aid kit, yes. But I do have something better.” Regis wouldn't mind. Those injuries looked bad and his doppelganger was only his age as well. “We call it an Elixer. It's a cure all.”

The light wavered and then shifted, lifting. And, without it glaring in his eyes, he finally got a good clean look at the both of them. Got a _good_ look at the first boy he had followed and found himself pausing in surprise.

Damn.

_Daaaamn._

His copy rattled a knowing laugh, and he felt the back of his neck go hot in embarrassment as he quickly turned his eyes down and away instead of ogling. His copy was – well it was him. Him if he lost half his body weight and grew out his hair. Him if he had never seen war or death or fought on the front lines. Him, if he was also incredibly badly wounded and barely conscious.

“I'm Harry. Harry Potter. This is.... uh....” the first boy trailed off awkwardly, glancing down at Cor's copy with a dismayed look that had him laughing wetly.

“Need to – know it – now, huh?” he gasped sarcastically.

Potter rolled his eyes hard enough that it almost looked like it hurt. “He's Assface, King of the Asshats,” he decided lazily.

“Oi.”

Cor felt himself smirking a little even as he summoned the elixer to hand.

* * *

Regis honestly didn't know how to react to the sudden addition of two very dirty, injured, and exhausted teenagers being guided to them by a pyjama clad Cor. He honestly hadn't thought much about his father's young bodyguard leaving the tent in the middle of the night, figuring he needed to relieve himself and preferred not to do so near where people would be sleeping and eating and thus smell it when they awakened the next day.

But then he didn't come back.

So Regis got up after a while, concern gnawing his insides. He slipped out of the tent, murmuring some useless absent minded platitude to Weskham when the retainer stirred at his activities. Summoning a torch, he cast around for any sign of Cor only to not need it in the slightest when he spotted the fifteen year old heading back towards the haven, with two more people. The light was too bright to make out much, but Regis could see that one was being carried piggy-back, holding a flare dangerously close to the first's face as he trudged, heavy footed, in Cor's wake.

“Cor! Who are your friends?” he called, pitching his voice loud enough to wake even Cid.

He saw his young friend wave a hand but not answer, so he was clearly not under duress or anything. Cor tended not to raise his voice unless it was an emergency, or he was too angry to keep his mouth shut.

He heard the tent rustling behind him as the rest of the retinue woke and got themselves up and at least somewhat presentable, by the time Weskham was stepping out, fully dressed, Cor was helping the two _teenagers_ onto the haven. They were both absolutely filthy and reeking of _blood_ – which immediately moved bot Weskham and Regis into action.

Cor was given his marching orders to bring out some spare clothes for the two and Regis was ordered to get the lights up, the two were quickly given chairs, at which point they all actually got a good _look_ at the two and found themselves stuttering to a halt in their activities with sheer confusion.

“You got a brother we didn't know about?” Clarus asked, turning to the youngest of the retinue.

A snort went up from the unfamiliar dark haired boy. “I asked the same thing,” he admitted with a Tenebraean accent that had a few of them blinking in further surprise.

“I don't,” Cor assured them.

“Y'all're sure?” Cid demanded doubtfully, eyeing the youngster closely. “Looks like if y'all never went inter th'army.”

The unfamiliar boy with Cor's face smiled tightly, “Quite sure,” he grit out with a sharper Tenebraean accent than his companion. “My family take geneology quite seriously,” he explained, prompting another snort from the other boy, he glowered at him, “Yours did too, Potter.”

“Like I would know,” he dismissed, making Cor's look-alike actually flinch.

That – sounded like there was a lot of unpleasant history there.

“So, what do we call you?” Clarus asked casually as he lit up the last of their lights and hoisted it back up above their heads, trying not to take umbridge at the fact that it was like.... three in the morning and he would _really_ like to be asleep. In the light of the lanterns, it was stark that the two were in terrible shape and that Cor had done _absolutely_ the right thing in bringing them straight to the haven – his look alike still had _elixer_ flakes trapped in the folds of his clothing, and both of them were plastered with blood. Too much blood.

The dark haired one was chugging greedily from a bottle of water, but Cor's copy was happy enough to answer.

“I – am Cornelius Leonhart, I am a Slytherin at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry – ” he cut himself off as the other boy started choking, green eyes practically bugging out of his skull behind his ugly-ass glasses, shaking his head and making quick cutting off gestures that... Leonhart _clearly_ didn't understand judging by the look of bewildered offence on his face.

He managed to clear his throat, “No! No we _aren't!_” he rasped, “What the fuck? You can't just go telling people – they're not going to understand, fuck.” He looked at them with a particularly shifty nervousness. “Hogwarts has _nothing_ to do with witchcraft or wizardry. That's just a joke we made up because it's literally in a castle and our chemistry classroom has a cupboard full of cauldrons. Ignore him. Slytherins all have _terrible_ senses of humour,” he complained with a dirty look at Cor's look-alike.

“Slytherins?” Cor enquired, “He called you a Gryffindor earlier.”

He nodded, “Yeah. School split us into four houses. Everyone likes to joke that it's because of personality archetypes but I think a lot of people play up to it. Hermione's the smartest girl in our school, if you go by what they say, she should've been in Ravenclaw.”

“She set Professor Snape _on fire_,” Leonhart burst out in disbelief.

The dark haired boy frowned at him, “How do you know about that? No one knows about that. You weren't even _at_ Hogwarts when she did that!” he exclaimed, pointing at him.

“Oh Merlin, you aren't refuting it! She actually _did that?! I thought it was a rumour!!_”

“How do you know about that!”

Weskham coughed very pointedly, “I do not believe we have had the pleasure of your name, young man?” he ventured politely while Leonhart looked like he was having three different existential crisis's all at the same time – it was an interesting look given how he had Cor's face. Absolutely hysterical though.

“Ah – right, um, yeah sorry. Harry Potter. I – I'm Gryffindor. Year above him,” he explained with a negligent jerk of his thumb at the other guy – who was a foot taller than him. Clarus figured the guy would have been _younger_. He looked younger.

Weskham nodded, completely non-plussed, “And are you injured, Mister Potter? I see that Cor provided Mister Leonhart with aid, but do you need anything?” he asked politely with a suspicious look up and down the teenager's body.

He shook his head quickly, lifting grazed dirty palms, “I'm good. Just a bit bruised and scraped. Nothing hot water and plasters can't cover,” he refuted with an almost cheerful smile.

“He was limping,” Cor corrected mercilessly, making Potter's head whip around to glare at him.

“He took several – hits across his back and shoulders,” Leonhart added suddenly, looking at him before picking at his bloodstained front, “This is not mine,” he stated plainly.

Potter opened his mouth, clearly ready to argue, only to look at Leonhart, gaze lingering on the front of his shirt before he sighed in aggravation. “Fine. Yes. I – should probably clean those before they start festering or something,” he muttered unhappily and then lifted his trouser leg to reveal a _nasty_ wound, something that looked like a _burn_ just above his ankle.

Cor sucked in an angry breath. “You've been _walking_ on that?!” he snarled.

Regis placed a hand on his young friend's back as Potter treated him to a raised eyebrow even as Weskham summoned water, cloth, and antiseptic.

“Kind of _had to_.”

* * *

This was so Merlin-damned surreal, Cornelius decided with bitter amusement.

If it was a dream, he _almost_ didn't want to wake up.

But no amount of seeing Harry Potter wet and without his shirt could take away from how weird this whole situation was he decided as he tore his eyes away from the bloody mess of the Gryffindor's back to where his changeling copy was stood to one side, thoroughly enjoying the view. Cornelius narrowed his eyes in annoyance, feeling a hot sting of possessiveness. That was _his_ classmate that changeling was ogling like a piece of meat. Did he have no manners? Any concept of privacy or manners?

For the first time since he _came_ to Hogwarts, Potter had actually noticed him – admittedly it was to save his damn ass from his parents' idol, and drag it, broken and bleeding, across several miles of unknown territory, defending him from beasts and demons. But the point remained. Potter actually knew his name now. A miracle, given how Malfoy obsessively attempted to hoard all of the Gryffindor's attention onto himself at any given moment and got viciously territorial about his animosity and 'rivalry' with him.

Cornelius was fairly certain that Potter usually had much more interesting things to be concerned about than what Draco Malfoy was doing at any given moment.

It was his biggest secret and deepest shame that the only reason the hat chose him for Slytherin over _Hufflepuff_ was that his ambition to become the head of the DMLE was too strong to be ignored. He was top of his class for Defence Against the Dark Arts, which wasn't that hard to do given hoe he studied in his own time and the class was a Merlin-damned _joke_.

He had wanted, so very badly, to attend the secret 'DA' club. Whatever it was. He wasn't sure. Just that Potter was teaching it, and that it was defensive magic, and that Madam Umbridge would have an aneurysm when she found out.

Not that she got a chance to.

The Dark Lord stormed the castle the moment she ousted Dumbledore.

He couldn't remember what had even happened. One moment everything seemed normal, and then suddenly the hallways were chaos, the paintings were screaming, the suits of armour were launching themselves down flights of stairs, the gargoyles were clawing their way across the walls. Students were screaming and running. Spells were flying. The Professors were trying to organise everything, bellowing commands and trying to defend their students.

He had been in class with Luna Lovegood at the time.

He had never thought much of her as a fighter, but he knew she was in Potter's DA. He had been attempting to scrape together the balls to approach her, to _discreetly_ ask about joining – because if anyone in Slytherin found out he was attending, he would have to find an abandoned classroom to sleep in. The Common Room would be too dangerous to even show his face in. Then the screaming started and her face went from serene to startled, to _icy_ as she got to her feet and drew her wand like a woman going to war.

She was the only Ravenclaw in their year to attend the meetings.

And when Fenrir Greyback burst into their classroom, she threw him straight back out and through the window behind him. He plummeted three stories to the courtyard below.

He had wanted to be the head of the DMLE, he had been working his way towards it since his first year, studying magical law, spells, curses, and hexes. He thought he was ready for it when he stepped out of the classroom.

He wasn't.

Bellatrix Lestrange opened him up like a banana, flaying wide swathes of skin from his chest and thigh before _Potter_ was there with Longbottom. The two working in tandem to disarm and then take her out with ruthless efficiency. Then Potter was beside him, conjuring ropes and using them to physically strap him piggy-back to himself, apologising that he couldn't be levitated, he needed his wand free. He didn't seem to notice or care about the blood as he conjured bandages to press against his wounds, cast a feather-light on him, and then scooped him up and started running.

Everything was a blur.

Everything except for the Dark Lord's face.

Reptilian, horrifying, twisted by magic in only ways that the black arcane could do, revealing the truth of his inner-self.

And then – they were here.

Where-ever here was.

* * *

After they had dealt with Mister Potter's injuries, Weskham made sure the two children were fed, all the while his mind was churning over this newly presented mystery. The two of them were in school uniforms, but also wore robes. Potter has the pinched malnourished look that he had seen on many a refugee, coupled with the extensive scarring and how he didn't make even a peep as Clarus cleaned up the _whip-marks_ across his back before healing them, lead him to believe that he might be on par with Cor. And yet, Cor's doppelgänger had the soft sleek look of a young man well-cared for and the articulation and posture of one raised to money and comfort, as well as expectation.

He also looked at Mister Potter with the expression of a young man with an awful lot of hormones and not much of a clue in how to deal with them. It was a look Weskham was more familiar with being seen directed at _Regis_ from their youngest party member, but it seemed that even their Cor was becoming increasingly enamoured with the other young man – who until now apparently didn't even know young Leonhart's name.

Cornelius Leonhart, Cor Leonis. So similar yet so differently. How very like the young men in question.

And then there was the mystery of this Hogwarts. And the clear, yet reasonable, lies Potter had given them.

He glanced over his shoulder at the young man in question and paused.

He was asleep.

Cid had given both him and young Leonhart their spare blankets due to the chill of the Leiden night, and Potter had bundled himself up, curled into a ball, and _clearly_ despite his best efforts, fallen asleep in his chair.

He finished heating the stew and bowled the two some food and went to go and wake him.

“No – don't,” young Leonhart begged, “It's – I don't think he's slept at all in the last three days. Let him rest,” he begged.

“I doubt he's eaten either,” Cor pointed out plainly.

Leonhart shook his head, “Ah, um, he ate earlier.”

“He lied. I woke up when he snuck into our camp. He took the food and immediately went back to you.” Cor looked at the sleeping fifteen year old, irritation and respect creasing his features, “I doubt he's actually eaten anything in front of you either.”

Young Leonhart grimaced in annoyance and pain, “Bloody Gryffindors,” he muttered clenching his fists.

“You keep saying that, but never explaining it,” Cor pointed out eyeing him.

Leonhart waved his spoon looking aggravated, “The four founders of our school had certain values. They sorted the students according to those values. Gryffindors are known for nobility, bravery, and sheer stupid recklessness. Ravenclaw took only the smartest of the students, the wittiest ones that valued knowledge over great deeds and what not. Slytherin was for those of pure blood, those with cunning and ambition. Hufflepuff – Hufflepuff took those with great loyalty and a good work ethic but she believed that everyone should have an education so if you didn't fit with any of the other houses, she would open her doors to you none the less. Potter is as Gryffindor as it gets,” he complained bitterly.

Looks were exchanged around the retinue and then back to him, “And you're – _not_ in Gryffindor?” Regis asked in disbelief.

“Do I look like an idiot?” young Leonhart demanded witheringly. Weskham looked at Cor, along with the rest of the Retinue. And Leonhart made a sound of disgust in the back of his throat, “_Really?_ Did father not – ” Cor's face darkened and all of a sudden it became quite clear what the difference between the two was. Cor's biological father had been swiftly arrested for antisocial behaviour and conspiracy. Clearly, young Leonhart's father was alive and well and _involved_. “Ah.... That.... would explain a lot. He never did approve of.... doing something for nothing.”

“Why did he not want you to say anything about your school?” Clarus asked, nodding to where Mister Potter was practically unconscious, sleeping the sleep of the truly exhausted.

Leonhart made a noise of aggravation, “I don't know. It's quite clear you all have magic, so it isn't like the secrecy laws matter – then again, given how the Ministry has been treating him lately.... no, I can understand why. Damn,” he sighed, dragging a hand through his dirty hair looking pained.

“The ministry? Why are they treating him poorly?” Weskham prompted, pulling a drink from the Armiger for the boy. Clearly he was much more loose lipped than Mister Potter, soft, more trusting. He could see the almost physical _pain_ Cor was keeping very carefully hidden as they gently interrogated his look-alike without the fifteen year old being aware even the slightest. How his eyes kept flickering to the unconscious boy with a grimace of what was painfilled approval. Yes. Weskham could agree wholeheartedly. Potter would have been a very hard nut to crack and get information out of, in fact, the way he was quick to explain away the fact that they attended a _magical school for magic users_, that, if young Leonhart was to be believed, was also under the purview of an entirely magical society and government that was in the midst of a brewing civil war over the matter of blood purity and traditions – and that Mister Potter was practically the figure head of the progressive side as the son of...

“I am sorry, could you repeat that name again?” Weskham asked, carefully keeping his alarm hidden.

“Ignoitus Peverell. He was the youngest of the three brothers, his daughter married into the Potter family and that's the start of his line,” the blue eyed boy explained gesturing to young Potter. “It practically makes him Royalty, not that he knows. I heard he was raised by muggles, and he hates them.”

Ignoitus. Youngest of three brothers. Peverell.

Regis looked at him in dismay.

Crepera Lucis Caelum. Daughter of the Wandering King. Her mother's maiden name was Peverell.

She had three older brothers, Antioch, Cadmus, and Ignoitus.

All three of her brothers and her father were supposedly slain in a daemon attack while battling at the Vesperpool. It was why her tomb supposedly was lain to rest there, upon their death and her subsequent inheritance of the throne, her first action was to drive the darkness from that valley and then push the battle lines so far north that no Lucis Caelum had never matched her furious march since.

“Why would he hate the people that raised him?” Clarus asked with a frown.

Leonhart grimaced, “I don't know. I heard it was because they kept him under lock and key and tried to stop him from coming to school one year. I know he ran away from home at least once and spent the summer hiding at the Leaky Cauldron – apparently he got into a huge fight with some woman and his magic went off bad. The ministry had to send the Accidental Magic reversal squad and modify several memories.”

Memory modification?

This was getting more and more complicated, and _dangerous_. They were going to have to keep a very close eye on these two.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Eos!Cor meets Earth!Cor, neither are particularly impressed with the other, BOTH of them are very impressed with Harry, and Harry is just so tired. Please let him rest. Let him eat and sleep. It's been a long three days. Poor boy.
> 
> And yea, he has not been eating or sleeping for much of it. Cat naps here and there during the day, drinking from every water source they come across, and occasionally eating wild plants and what not that he recognises, but as soon as you hit Leide the food gets a bit scarce. (or rather it should do). 
> 
> It was fun to write, but I doubt I'll come back to this idea. Originally I was going to have it as Draco Malfoy and Harry end up in Eos together but I thought this would be funnier. Turns out - no. No it wasn't. I probably should have stuck to Draco. The interactions wouldn't have gotten so difficult later on - especially if LMAO if Draco took one look at Cor and had a second gay awakening like 'damn'. Cor meanwhile only has eyes for Harry and Harry only has eyes for his bowl of stew and a blanket. Pls.


	8. Sharper Reflections

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Tags:** HBP!AU-onwards, memory-sharing, reincarnation-y?, violence, character death, gore.
> 
> Cornelius Leonhart, seventh year Slytherin, wakes up one cold January morning with the memories of Cor Leonis churning in the back of his skull - and everything at Hogwarts changes again.

What do you do when you wake up with an entire lifetime of memories not your own?

Cornelius Leonhart went to bed a snowy January evening and woke up with the memories of Staff Sergeant Cor Leonis stuffed between his ears like all too much cotton wool. Straining at the seams of his skull.

His head was killing him.

His head was killing him and everything felt  _ wrong _ . Off. Like he was both too tall, too thin, not heavy enough, too weak. Like the light was wrong, and the air wasn’t quite right, god, Six, he felt  _ weak _ . No, that wasn’t right, he was used to -  _ no _ , he  _ wasn’t _ used to  _ more _ . It had been a dream! A horrible dream that - no, no!

He dragged his pillow over his head with a painfilled groan.

His dormmates left him be.

It was everyone for themselves at Hogwarts these days.

Not even the army at its worst could match Hogwarts these days. Since Headmaster Dumbledore died, since Harry Potter left, since Professor Snape took over. Hogwarts had been dangerous beforehand in a distant kind of way, Slytherin’s monster in his first year; dementors, werewolves, feral hippogriffs in his second; a death eater for a teacher and dragons on school grounds in his third; Umbridge, angry centaurs, rumours of a giant in the forest, Filch in his fourth; and then the attack in his fifth, the Death Eaters breaking into the school and murdering Professor Dumbledore. Now - now it was worse than any Imperial PoW camp he had ever heard report of. There - he had no words for what was going on right now. It just - it was wrong and twisted and - these were civilians. Children. Child civilians, not soldiers.

No - no, it was - they weren’t - his head  _ hurt _ .

* * *

He woke up to Amycus Carrow hitting him with a  _ crucio _ .

Like he had been struck by the whisker of an elder coeurl, pain crackled like fireworks across every nerve, bursting through his mind in blossoms of white and red hot agony, dragging a scream from his throat. It -  _ six _ , it felt like he had been dosed with that distilled pain drug during his week long anti-torture and interrogation training. He grit his teeth and rode it out until suddenly it was gone, leaving him aching, hollow, too hot, and limp in his sweat soaked tangled bedding.

Cornelius Leonhart had never felt the sting of a cruciatus curse.

Cor Leonis had felt many things far too similar to it.

And while his body was unfamiliar with the pain, his mind recognised it well from those new memories. His memories knew that pain. Experienced it. And commanded his body to answer his demand. He heaved himself up on shaking arms that looked far too thin and pale to his eyes, ignorant, deaf to the snarling of his Dark Arts Professor.

Whether it was military routine or simple student fear of authority, he found himself getting dressed with trembling fingers and gathering his bag, books, and wand, and then spending a confused moment patting around his bedside for his phone and sword before he remembered - of course - this was Hogwarts, not Lucis. Neither Kotetsu or Kikuichimonji  _ existed _ . It was just a dream. He was not Crownsguard, he was not the bodyguard of Royalty, he was just -  _ just _ Cornelius Leonhart. A soft Slytherin seventh year with a name that should have placed him amongst the lions, and earned him nothing but ridicule amongst the serpents he had begged to be thrown amongst, thinking the green and silver upon his uniform would earn his father’s approval for once in his life. It did not.

He followed Carrow in a daze, sweating and shivering, head aching fit to split.

Cor Leonis would have been a Gryffindor, he decided hazily. Not - not like how everyone thought Gryffindors were. Not like how everyone in Slytherin acted like they were. He would be like Potter. It wasn’t - it wasn’t a case of enjoying it. It wasn’t self-righteousness or stupidity or recklessness. It was - it was seeing a problem. And doing what had to be done. Again and again. It was putting yourself at risk because you were the only one there, and you could do something, and  _ not _ doing something woul d- would be unacceptable. For whatever reason. Because the results of doing nothing were too horrible, or too painful, to be ignored or allowed.

His head was ringing, shrill, and throbbing with pain as he stepped into the classroom where Carrow’s squat horrible sister was waiting for them.

Then he realised.

The ringing in his ears was not ringing - it was  _ screaming _ .

On one side of the room were trembling first years in yellow uniforms.

On the other were dull eyed, tense, seventh years with their wands out.

In front of Alecto Carrow was a screaming, writhing, eleven year old girl in yellow.

They were using torture curses on eleven year olds.

* * *

Like - a strange kind of dance.... Cornelius shied away, he took a step back away from what was in front of him, and Cor took a step forward.

A step forward, dropping his bag, deepening his stance, dropping his chin to protect his neck, drawing his wand up beneath his armpit, his weapon was unfamiliar yet familiar and with greater range than he was used to but eager to make use of.

The cutting curse was non-verbal and too fast to be dodged.

He slashed his wand out from under his arm and decapitated the woman torturing the little girl, pivoted on his heel, elbowing the wand out of Amycus’ hand and doing the same to him, ignoring the burst of gore as it sprayed across the stone wall, doorframe, and himself.

Children screamed behind him and then went painfully silent as Amycus’ body dropped to the ground with a very  _ final _ thud.

He turned from the corpse once certain it would not be moving, and immediately went to the sobbing girl trembling on the floor, almost catatonic and staring at nothing as her tiny body spasmed upon the stones.

“What have you done?” one of his dormmates whispered in horror.

He turned the little girl onto her back, using one of his own legs as a support as he lifted her upright a little so breathing would be a little easier, smoothing strawberry blonde hair from her tear-streaked sweaty freckled face. “The right thing,” he stated with absolute certainty. “Someone get Madam Pomfrey in here - and close the door.”

* * *

Madam Pomfrey took the first years away, which was good. They were terrified and they obviously equated the woman with safety if the way the tears stopped at the sight of her was an indication. He made his housemates  _ stay _ .

They were Slytherins. They were purebloods. They were security threats.

These teenagers had benefited the most from the current system here at Hogwarts, these boys and girls. They had been living at the top of the foodchain for the last year now. This year was the first one they had been expected to hold other students, little kids, under torture curses. But before now, they had been encouraged to delve into the Dark Arts, to indulge in their darkest impulses and baser desires for violence, and told to enjoy it, enabled and outright forced in multiple instances. Some of them excelled. Others had not. Cornelius had been one of those who had not. He had stood outside the ‘pecking’ order established within Slytherin house by virtue of being a relatively minor family, mixed blood for all that it was pure, his lineage was not pure British. But none attempted to call him to heel purely due to the fact that he stood at the top of multiple classes and kept his nose ‘clean’. His housemates stood behind him and used his success as a smokescreen for their behaviour.

At the turn of the new year, when it became obvious that despite excelling head and shoulders above them in  _ Defence _ Against the Dark Arts, he was nothing but a failure at actually  _ casting _ the Dark Arts, his dormmates decided he belonged beneath them for that deficiency.

Their world has just been irrevocably changed with the merciless, unhesitating murder of their teachers at the hands of a boy they had spent the last seven years sleeping in the same room with. A boy they had decided only four months ago was beneath them, and treated him accordingly.

A boy that was now holding them hostage.

He could see the fear in their eyes, the way they held their wands, expecting him to attack, thinking that he had only succeeded against the Carrows’ due to surprise, that they would not be taken by surprise like their teachers. He could see them gaining confidence as their thoughts ran in circles, as they realised they had him outnumbered.

He transfigured the nearest chair into a sword. Into Kotetsu. The sword he knew now better than his own body. The sweat-stained wrapping felt familiar as they bit into his  _ un _ familiar butter soft hands. But the blade was just as perfectly weighted and  _ razor _ sharp as he knew it to be.

His classmates flinched from him when he turned to them.

“Any being that forces torture on children is not worth following,” he told them plainly. Had either Regis or Mors ever ordered the senseless  _ torture _ of children, he would not even hesitate to part their heads from their shoulders. To allow such a thing would be a betrayal of his people, his pride, his values, his  _ Country _ , to the memory of the men he swore himself to. That was - if all one hundred and eleven of their ancestors did not fly from their graves to rip them limb from limb personally.

“They’re just mudbloods,” Bulstrode muttered, and inhaled sharply when a split second later the tip of Kotetsu was at his adam’s apple, faster than any of them could react.

“They are  _ children _ . And any who find no fault with the torment of a child is a monster, and will be put  _ down _ like one.”

* * *

Severus Snape knew the second he stepped into the Dark Arts classroom that Leonhart was different from the boy he had looked over for the last seven years.

Not only from the way he was standing, the set of his shoulders (straight backed, thrown back), his feet (spread, firm), the steady confident grip on a  _ sword _ of all things pointed at the throat of Edward Bulstrode. But from the look of ice in his eyes, and the grim set of his mouth.

The second his student looked at him, and Severus legilimenced him, he saw, without a shadow of a doubt, his own death.

He did not have the chance to consider it further before his vision was swathed in black.

Leonhard had thrown his robe at him, obscuring his vision, hiding himself from Severus’ sight. Which direction was he going to attack from?

The sword punched through his stomach and out through his back. Centre mass.

All the breath left his body in a soft, almost surprised, grunt.

His wand was twisted from his hand as he looked down at Leonhart, wondering when he had gotten so tall. They were at eye-level now. He - hadn’t realised that the hip height eleven year old was now - as tall as he was. Those eyes were cold. So cold. Colder than Albus’ had ever been, even with all the knowledge he had to hand. 

So these were the eyes of a soldier.

* * *

Minerva McGonagall stiffened, mid-lecture, the second she felt the castle wards settle upon her shoulders.

No...

The only way the wards would turn to  _ her _ in the current circumstances was if - if Severus  _ and _ the Carrows had...

“Turn to page three hundred and eleven for review. I will be testing your knowledge at the end of the week. Ms Burrows, I leave you in charge of the room. Please secure the door in my absence, I will return shortly.” She hoped.

She hurried from the room, ignoring the fearful looks of her fourth years as they hurried to do as she instructed them. The door squelched behind her as it sealed, and she turned to the nearest portrait. “Where is the Headmaster?” she demanded, grimacing against the bitter taste that word left in her mouth. Severus Snape did not  _ deserve _ such a title. 

She didn’t have long to wait for an answer before one of the headmaster portraits rushed down to her, “Minerva!” the puffing old man exclaimed, his robes quite askew as he mopped his forehead. “Young Severus’ portrait has just appeared in the office! There is an incident in the Dark - in the Dark Arts classroom!” he explained, choking with sheer disgust at the thought of such a subject being taught within his school.

She nodded, “My thanks!” she called and immediately started running.

She wasn’t nearly as fast as she once was thanks to the incident with those multiple stunners the year before last. It took far more time than she would have liked to get there, and she could hear raised voices as she rushed down the corridor.

Then she saw Severus, and the blood pooling out from beneath him. Sprawled like a puppet with its strings cut, an almost bewildered look on his face, the front of his black robes were wet and beneath him the thick crimson puddle haloed his fallen form. Then she saw Amycus Carrow, or rather, two thirds of him. He was missing both head, arm, and shoulder, as if someone had attempted to decapitate him but made the angle too severe and took his shoulder as well.

She drew her wand and stepped in.

The Slytherin Seventh Years were screaming, surrounding a single student who stood with a sword over one shoulder, and a shimmering opalescent shield between him and his classmates as they threw curses both verbal and magical at him.

She summoned every wand in the room, putting a stop to the fighting.

“ **WHAT IS GOING ON IN HERE?!!** ” she roared, silencing the Slytherins more out of sheer surprise than respect for her authority. Unsurprising, none of them had seen her raise her voice before. She had never been called to put a stop to an overly rowdy after-hours House Party for them after all. And she doubted they could get as  _ noisy _ as her cubs either.

“Leonhart’s gone crazy!” Bulstrode shouted, pointing at the sword wielding seventeen year old. “He just - he just  _ murdered _ the Carrows! And then Professor Snape!”

She looked at him, doubt on the tip of her tongue, and then she  _ stopped _ and she  _ looked _ .

Minerva had been a young lady at the end of the Second World War. She had seen many soldiers in her life. Both on and off the battlefield, as friends and foes and ghosts neither there in person or in mind. And while she could not envisage the young man she saw in her classroom yesterday doing such an act, there was no denying the simple truth when it was stood in front of her holding a bloody sword with his face painted in gore. Cornelius Leonhart had just killed three people in this room, and he did not feel a single speck of regret over it.

She stared at him, waiting.

He did not attempt to defend himself.

“Do you have the wards now?” he asked plainly.

“I do,” she agreed, tightening her grip on her wand.

He nodded, “Good. Don’t let them torture anymore kids.”

Tor-  _ they had been  _ \- she felt herself pale three shades and her stomach go cold and acidic with fury.

* * *

It was a strange dichotomy of knowledge swirling through his head. The knowledge of a pureblood dedicated to becoming the future head of the DMLE (to uphold the law without understanding the  _ spirit _ of it, Six he had been both stupid, naive, and so painfully hopeful), and the soldier bodyguard of Royalty, a Crownsguard Retinue member, all came together in a jumbled up mess of information that controlled the next six hours for his housemates as they were separated and half of them were placed under ‘arrest’.

All those in support of the Dark Lord and his policies were removed from the general student population. Their wands were confiscated, their belongings combed through, and they were taken to the actual  _ dungeon _ part of the dungeons were they were each placed into individual cells with what belongings were deemed allowable. Their dormitory beds, bedsides, desks, and bedding joined them so they would be comfortable, and a team of six house-elves made their new rooms clean, dry, and comfortable. Three of them would be remaining on hand at any given time to ensure the students were both watched and taken care of. They would not suffer under them. Disgusting beliefs aside, they were civilian children.

The same was done with all the remaining students - a small handful more joined the older Slytherins in the dungeons, but not as many as Cornelius had anticipated. Having a genuine taste of Death Eater doctrine and behaviour had swayed the more moderate purists well away from the Dark Lord even if they still believed that those with muggle blood should not be allowed to join them in Hogwarts. It was better than nothing, and he wasn’t about to look a gift horse in the mouth. Education could come later, once he had some facts to back his words up. The annoying thing about logic was, it was very hard to argue against it without looking or feeling stupid, and teenagers were  _ very _ sensitive to such things.

Nothing quite opened one’s eyes as much as seeing eleven year olds being held under torture curses considered so evil it would get you life imprisonment. He bet that discovery had been jarring for many of them. He was going to have to try and remember all of the information they had been supplied with in the army about assisting with PTSD and PoWs and give it to Madam Pomfrey for the first and second years, the children that had been held under torture curses in these very halls.

And then the missing Gryffindor students appeared.

* * *

“So. You decapitated the Carrows’,” Ginny Weasley declared, marching up to him in her hand-knitted pastel pink sweater and faded washed out blue jeans.

Cornelius didn’t really have a chance to say anything before her hands were grabbing his head and yanking him down, mashing their lips together. He squawked into her mouth, flailing a little out of sheer surprise and unbalance, feeling his face going red as she did her level best to try and get her tongue between his teeth. 

He placed one hand on her shoulder, and pushed her down while he straightened up.

The red headed girl made a noise of irritated disappointment but let him escape.

“Ugh, fine. I suppose some of that  _ spinelessness _ had to have remained somewhere,” she complained flipping her straight rust coloured hair over one shoulder as he took three steps away from her, looking rattled. He narrowed his eyes, feeling a faint sting of indignation over the spineless comment even as he examined his behaviour prior to now and decided that she probably had a point from a certain perspective - he certain’y hadn’t gone out of his way to stand up for anyone, himself included. He opted against addressing that comment and instead looked over at the resurfacing students, the majority of them being Gryffindors fourth up to seventh year, Ravenclaw upper years, Hufflepuff upper years. They all looked much thinner and wilder around the eyes than before, than the other students around them - they looked like Crownsguard returning from their first tour of duty outside the wall.

“...House-elves have food out in the Great Hall. Professor McGonagall has removed the passwords on the Common Rooms and put the castle on lock down. No owls in or out,” he informed the red head calmly. The offer of hot food and their own beds clear in his voice.

But her face was hard as she looked up at him, “Bulstrode and the other sympathisers?” she asked flatly, unmoved.

Good. She reminded him of Antheia, Clarus’ fiancee, his former SO.

“Locked up in the actual dungeons,” he told her, suppressing the urge to salute with ruthless efficiency. 

She nodded, turning her attention to watching the reunion of students with a sombre look on her face. 

The silence between them stretched to the point where, if he hadn’t been used to prolonged silences with Regis and Clarus, the both of them consumed with guilt and hurt over leaving Weskham in Altissia, over Cid leaving them in Leide after that huge blow out, after breaking up with Decimus and still having to go through training with him, getting caught with his trousers down on top of Dave Auburnbrie during their roadtrip by the guy’s mother and then having to attend an important meeting about the doors, he might have felt uncomfortable (nothing could be more uncomfortable than being asked to pass the potatoes by a smiling Kimya Auburnbrie while her sister glared death at him, her son avoided looking at him, and the entire Retinue were almost breaking their ribs with suppressed laughter).

“Why the change of heart?” she eventually demanded, turning to look up at him again. “Over a year you keep your head down and your mouth shut. Roll over and show your belly to keep life easy. And then suddenly you rampage and kill  _ three _ Death Eaters and imprison your own dorm-mates within the space of half a way.”

He grimaced.

“They wanted us to hold the first years under cruciatus,” he told her quietly, examining his feelings and memories carefully with the new perspective that Cor Leonis had given him. “I didn’t - agree with anything they did before, their beliefs or actions. But I didn’t think I could do anything from outside the system. But when they made that girl scream... I knew there would be no changing it without - ”

“Drastic action,” she finished, leaning back with knowing eyes as she folded her arms. “Well. I’m glad you’ve pulled your head from your ass. The real fun begins now,” she declared almost cheerfully, slapping his arm hard enough to stagger him before turning and swanning off to join Colin Creevey, his younger brother Dennis, Luna Lovegood, and several of the other missing students. The muggleborns. The blood traitors. 

There wasn’t a single Slytherin amongst them.

Maybe someday.

* * *

Colin Creevey cornered him later.

“You aren’t Cornelius,” the Gryffindor told him without preamble, one hand curled around his wand, the other practically shoving a map under Cor’s nose. A map that his year-mate then proceeded to direct his attention to one specific section of.

_ Colin Creevey _ stood in a small alcove opposite a smeared label with only  _ Cor li Leon s t _ legible through the bleeding ink.

“Who are you really? Cornelius was nice enough for a Slytherin, but he’d have never made a stand against Snape. Never mind gotten violent towards the Carrows,” the blond bit out angrily before casting an almost ugly look down at Kotetsu, “And I know for a fact he had no idea what a katana was, and yet,” he gestured to the sword almost angrily.

Cor stared at him steadily, considering.

Colin was not far off him in height or weight. And yet somehow until now he had still somehow thought of him as a scrawny fourth year more interested in his muggle camera than his classes - that would have been the year the DA began, the year Umbridge invaded their school and gave them all the first taste of what life under Death Eater rule would be like. He had been in the DA since the start, Colin. Learned under Potter personally. He was not a person to dismiss, Cor felt. Cornelius wasn’t so sure but... what did he know of people? Honestly? Nose so deep in books and spells and laws that he missed the obvious and neglected to get any practical hands on experience. 

“At a wild guess. Reincarnation or possession,” he said, making the Gryffindor pause. “I woke up this morning with seventeen years worth of memories that aren’t mine, that don’t come from anywhere I’ve ever heard of.” He held up Kotetsu. “But it was me all the same. My face. My family. Without my father.  _ With _ my grandfather.” He looked up at the Gryffindor from where his eyes had been tracing the gleaming silver patterns of his scabbard. “I am still Cornelius. I just have... perspective now.”

Colin stared at him.

“Perspective,” he echoed, unsure if he should be doubtful or scornful.

“Believe me or not. I don’t care. They were holding the first years under cruciatus. They got what they deserved.”

* * *

With Snape dead, and the other students busy, Cor took his opportunity to go into the potions classroom and begin working.

War was coming. With Hogwarts now in open revolt, the Dark Lord would seek to bring them to heel sooner rather than later. He needed to be ready. And right now, while he had all the theoretical knowledge one could ask for, the memories of a great warrior at his call, his  _ body _ was not ready for it. Equipped for it.  _ Capable _ of it.

So he was cheating.

It was something Cornelius had given thought to during the summer, brewing these potions to give himself the edge he needed when returning to Hogwarts after last year. Greater speed, greater strength, more endurance. But he did not have a baseline for that, he didn’t know what it felt like, couldn’t imagine it. Cor knew his body. Knew his reflexes. 

The potion was not an overly hard one. The repercussions of it were often what made many consider it not worth the effort.

The permanent transfiguration set of potions needed not only extensive knowledge of the human body, but also of transfiguration itself in order to prevent gruesome disfigurement and mutation. Good thing Cor was knowledgeable on both of those subjects.

Once he took the potion, he would be able to take the wit-sharpening potion and the memory retention potion and go through his training katas. Both of them combined with the transfiguration setting potion in his system would be a short,  _ cheat sheet _ shortcut to regaining the reflexes and muscle memory of his past life, and allow him to train further with magic in  _ this _ one. 

They both needed to simmer overnight, so he headed to the Great Hall for dinner, (having to evade more Gryffindor attempts to kiss him for murdering his Head of House, did none of them realise that, despite everything, it might have been a sore subject for him to do such a thing to the one teacher at Hogwarts who realised that not everything with his father was sunshine and roses, who actually tried to  _ help _ ?), and then headed for bed several hours earlier than usual. He was still shaky from the curse that woke him that morning and - 

Tomorrow was going to be busy.

* * *

The potions, as expected, tasted awful and had an absolutely revolting consistency. But as he turned his wand on himself and remembered bones, muscle groups, lungs, circulatory systems, nerves, sinews, ligaments, tendons, synovial fluid, and blood, he was calm, confident.

And when the discomfort and the stomach turning sound of wet shifting flesh moving and quenching and cramping finished, it was like he finally felt at  _ home _ .

He flexed familiarly callused hands, examined strong forearms and shoulders, no scars, skin unmarked but stretched over familiar hard muscle. Good. Good. His body was as it should be. Now it was time to make it the weapon he needed it to be - and more.

He took the next two potions, and then got to work on remastering his katas. When he was finished, he would relearn every spell he had ever cast, and then work on them until he needed no incarnation or wand waving, only his will. Then he would find a way to incorporate it with his swordplay.

* * *

Despite their efforts, word got out within five days that Hogwarts was free of Death Eaters.

There was a riot within the Ministry of Magic that morning.

St Mungos sealed itself up tight, no one in or out, but according to Headmistress Derwent's portrait, the Death Eaters that had held the hospital hostage were down, out, and the healers were protecting their remaining patients with the ferocity of nesting dragons.

Clashes happened in muggle streets shortly thereafter.

And with the Ministry on lockdown trying to handle everything, no one could deploy the Obliviators to deal with the situation. The muggle worthy excuse office was destroyed months before the riots and had nothing to provide their contemporaries in the muggleworld. There was no cover up.

The CCTV footage was all over the BBC before anyone in the magical world realised the Big Board in the back corner of the abandoned auror office was  _ screaming _ .

By then, the Death Eaters couldn't keep the situation quiet anymore, and Voldemort finally surfaced from Malfoy Manor.

The Dark Lord was moving.

* * *

"There's never been a better moment to strike," a semi-familiar female voice commented. "We won't get this chance to kill Nagini again."

"First we need to trick him into dropping the shield around her,"  _ Potter's _ voice stated grimly.

"Think you can play dead?" Weasley asked, a grin in his voice.

Potter laughed, and Cor felt his stomach squeeze a little. "After last time, I don't think he's going to believe I'm dead until my head is on the other side of the castle," he joked. 

And then Cor rounded the corner to see them in the Entrance Hall.

Fuck, Cornelius had had it  _ bad _ for Potter back in the day. The feelings had faded considerably in the two years of absence (into something decidedly less innocent given the number of acquaintances with his hand to the mental image of him), but with Cor's memories added to the mix, seeing him again was like a punch to the gut.

He looked…  _ tired. _

His hair was longer, pulled up carelessly out of his face, he was paler than Cornelius remembered, a long painful looking scar slashed down his right cheek from his forehead over his eye. A smaller, paler one, went over the right corner of his lip. He had ditched the glasses, which was a shame because he looked cute in them, but had the benefit of making his eyes very green and obvious and - correction, Cornelius still had it bad. And Potter was even managing to tick all of  _ Cor's  _ boxes too. Wearing jeans, boots, a belt with multiple pouches and twin dagger sheaths, and a black leather jacket.

Beside him stood his usual book ends, tall red headed Ron Weasley, his left ear had a nice chunk cut out of it, and he had a scar running from the middle of his forehead, through his eyebrow, to the missing chunk, leaving little to the imagination over how closely he had nearly been killed. He wore a similar hand knitted sweater to his sister in burnt orange, clashing horribly with his hair, but he didn't seem to care over much. Strapped to one thigh was a small dagger sheath, half the size of Potter's, more for something the size of a kitchen knife than actually useable.

Hermione Granger, muggleborn genius and one hell of a terrifying witch. She had hacked her hair short and out of the way, she didn't have any visible scars but he could see the edge of what looked like a horrible burn creeping up out of the neckline of her jacket. She was dressed like Potter, jeans, boots, and a leather jacket, and she had a knife sheath at on hip, and a wand sheath on the other.

Three sets of eyes turned to look at him.

"That's him," Weasley said.

Granger gave him a look up and down. "Didn't Ginny say he was  _ skinny? _ " she asked in disbelief.

"Ginny needs her eyes checked," her brother agreed.

Potter stepped forward, "You're the guy that took out Snape?" he asked sharply.

Cor nodded, and again, in a twisted parody of his first time meeting Ginny Weasley, Potter grabbed his head and yanked him down, mashing their mouths together. Cor froze, his brain screeching to a startled stop at the touch of dry chapped lips on his own.

Unlike with Ginny Weasley though, that was all he did. A simple, forceful, press of his lips to the tune of Granger snorting with laughter and Weasley spluttering in surprise. He pulled away before Cor could get over his surprise long enough to do more than twitch his lips against his, or even  _ think _ about returning it (he really wanted to return it holy shit he thought he was  _ over this crush! _ ).

“Well done,” Potter said quietly, still holding his head but no longer on tiptoes or in his face, “You may have just turned the tide in this war.”

Words stuck in his throat and he felt himself opening his mouth to say something only for nothing to come out.

Potter let go of him and stepped back, just in time to receive a punch on the arm from his female friend, “Give the poor guy some warning next time, harry,” she laughed and it  _ wan’t _ Cor’s imagination when he realised her right arm moved stiffly, as if it pained her.

Potter flushed, “Ah - I just - ”

“Give him a break, Hermione,” Weasley snickered, reeling her back. “I’d kiss the guy too if he hadn’t gotten there first.”

Dismay filled him.

“Is everyone in Gryffindor going to try and kiss me?” he found himself asking faintly.

Granger eyed him with interest, “Oh? Who else has?” she asked curiously.

He pointed at the red head, “His sister. A few - other people have tried,” he added awkwardly. Various eyebrows went up and he felt his face beginning to get warm, “She caught me by surprise,” he muttered in defence of himself. Surprise, much like Potter had done. Not even six hours after he murdered his head of house, with blood still on his clothes and in his hair, and she tried to stick her tongue down his throat - no one could have expected  _ that _ .

Weasley outright laughed at him, “Yeah, mate, the only reason I’m  _ not _ kissing you is because it might give  _ her _ ideas, and Harry beat me to it,” he said with a grin as he nudged Granger, Cor was going to assume they were dating by that comment. “We can’t comment on Snape as a Head of House, I’m sure he was better to the Slytherins to the rest of us, but after  _ everything _ we’ve had to deal with in the last six years under him… you’re going to have an  _ awful _ lot of very grateful lions trying to show you just how grateful they are.”

“Please no.”

The trio laughed at him, and for a moment, it felt like he was in Lucis.

* * *

And just like that, with the return of Potter and his friends,  _ everything _ changed.

Cor knew that there was a resistance, he had no idea how big it was, how involved Potter was. How involved  _ Professor McGonagall _ and the  _ other _ Hogwarts staff members were.

He walked with Colin Creevey, Ginny Weasley, and Luna Lovegood up to a room on the seventh floor that he had never seen before, opposite a tapestry of St Barnabus the Barmy attempting to teach trolls how to perform ballet. They pushed open a rather heavy looking door into what was, without a doubt, a war room. Maps of the British Isle were laid out on multiple walls and covered with pins and highlighted areas and strings that lead off to paper collages of information, pictures, and photographs. There was a wall of mirrors, a model of Hogwarts in a glass orb, the Ministry of Magic in perfect replica, Diagon Alley, Hogsmeade,  _ St Mungos _ . All around them were the missing Hogwarts students, the DA, both past and present he realised when he spotted the Weasley  _ twins _ and several of Potter’s yearmates and a few upper years (Oliver Wood, the former Gryffindor Quidditch captain was there, he was one of the few upper years Cor  _ did _ recognise and that was purely because of his Quidditch matches). They were all moving around the room, talking and comparing papers, leaning over maps and scratching at scars and bandaged injuries.

They looked battered.

The looked like Camilla Claustra’s resistance members hiding out in than Altissian basement before everything went wrong.

Just younger. And more organised.

His footsteps stalled as several sets of eyes turned to him, and then he was having to fend off the Weasley twins as they  _ too _ tried to kiss him, swooning dramatically when he wriggled his way free, ears burning with embarrassment as several tired faces eased up and brightened with laughter. Potter watched from the far side of the room with a smirk and a raised eyebrow.

Ginny Weasley kicked her brothers away, “Give him some space!” she barked, linking her arm with his and pulling him forward across the room. For some reason, he couldn’t help but feel as though he were on display, like, like she had just  _ laid a claim _ on him or something. He glanced up at Potter as they got closer, catching the way his smile faded and now he watched them with steady eyes and a flat expression that gave nothing away as to his thoughts. It was an expression Cor was familiar with. He had seen it often enough in his own mirror.

“You done?” Potter asked blandly when she reached him, dragging Cor behind.

“You’re still my favourite,” she told him sweetly. Cor carefully tried to pull his arm free only to have her tighten her grip on him. He felt like a cornered cat.

Potter rolled his eyes, “Let’s get this over with.” He turned to look at the room at large, “Let’s hear what you’ve got. Order of the Phoenix, the floor is yours, report!”

And that was the beginning as a man he recognised as a Ministry Auror stepped forward.

* * *

Horcruxes.

Cornelius had never heard of such a thing but apparently they were absolutely essential to the war effort.

They needed to find them.

Whatever they were.

The DA research division had made some headway on one artefact in particular. They had traced the whereabouts of one Mundungus Fletcher and whom he had sold this and that to - one of their number saw the horcrux around the neck of Delores Umbridge when last they were at the Ministry of Magic. They would need to stage a raid in order to obtain it. Potter handed that to Weasley to plan and head, for something like the Ministry his father’s inside knowledge and his head for strategy would be essential to success.

Spell development were still working on the calculations of a spell-breaker that would drop the shield ward around the Dark Lord’s pet snake. It quite escaped him why it was so important that they killed the serpent, but it was listed as one of their key priorities, and if the Dark Lord thought his pet so important that he kept her in an impregnable ward bubble, then they must have been onto something. Granger was told to work with them, see if they couldn’t push it over the finish line now that they had access to the books Dumbledore and Snape had squirrelled away in the Headmaster’s office. The twins were asked to contact their brother Bill and have him lend his knowledge to the task as well - better to be safe than sorry.

Then came the talk about shoring up Hogwarts defences, collapsing all the known secret passageways, going through the Chamber of Secrets a third time for any possible hunt of a second entrance/exit, and then creating a new secret passageway in order to evacuate the students that wouldn’t be fighting to a safe location. Potter announced that he had been in contact with Viktor Krum, the Quidditch player, and he had managed to secure Durmstrang for their use - it was unplottable, and with the amendments he had made to their wards, the whole school could be locked down and the grounds turned into a death trap in order to protect the students from Death Eaters until given the all clear.

One they had the protections around Hogwarts set to rights, then they would make the announcement that the children were no longer being held hostage.

Hostage.

It had  _ never _ occurred to Cornelius that this was what had happened.

But to Cor, it only made too much sense.

Why else would the Death Eaters concern themselves with a school if not to ensure the parents wouldn’t  _ dare _ fight back or revel for risk of their child’s life? Hadn’t Lovegood and all the Weasleys been forced to hide away for risk of having their lives used against their family members?

When it got out that he was the one to kill Snape and the Carrows, he wondered what would happen to his parents.

His father he couldn’t have physically cared any less for without going into the negatives.

His mother though…

He would have to speak to Potter, see if something could be arranged. He would like to avoid becoming an orphan this time.

* * *

The auror, Shacklebolt, promised to get his mother somewhere safe,  _ discreetly _ , and without his father’s notice. Cornelius didn’t know anything about his grandfather in this world, but Cor knew that if his mother returned to her father’s protection he would raise the seas themselves to keep her safe. She had never spoken of her family, her husband would snarl at her whenever the subject was brought up and Cornelius eventually stopped asking, anything to stop her from cringing the way she did when her husband raised his voice. His mother’s family was unimportant, they were of pureblood and that was all he needed to know. He had inherited the  _ Leonhart _ name. That legacy was all he needed concern himself with.

He only hoped his mother took her chance and left the man that made her miserable these last twenty years.

Ginny Weasley grabbed his arm, grinning with an awful lot of teeth, “That must be a relief! Come on, let’s get food.”

She practically dragged him from the room, leaving Potter bent over several maps and reports without a second glance. Cor looked over his shoulder, catching the way the Gryffindor’s face tightened and he returned to his reports in silence. He looked very lonely, despite the people around him.

* * *

Somehow, he knew, Regis was laughing at him.

Cid and Clarus too as well, cackling their fucking asses off.

Weskham would not be laughing. He would be trying to suppress a smile and be appropriately sympathetic to his plight, even with his wildly twitching lips and twinkling eyes. King Mors, his Royal Majesty, would just stare at him for a long moment before telling him to get out and deal with it himself instead of hiding behind his skirts. His Majesty had never been one for mincing words.

It started at dinner.

Ginny Weasley had dragged him down to the Great Hall and - well, house divides had definitely been thrown well and truly out of the window. There was no escaping her to sit at the Slytherin table because  _ everyone _ was mingling, sat at whatever table their friends happened to be at without care or concern for houses. Those students who had been trapped under the thumb of the Death Eaters may have attempted to huddle on their House tables but the missing students let them shy away. The Great Hall was loud and messy and full of strained almost hysterical laughter and voices. As it should have been. As it  _ hadn’t been _ for two years.

He got through all of his food, and was just finishing his drink when a Gryffindor with sandy hair, he thought his name was something Irish, he was in Potter’s year, called his name. Swallowing his drink, he turned his head - and found himself dragged into another surprise kiss that was considerably more….  _ Enthusiastic _ than Weasley or Potter had given him.

Ginny Weasley launched a cup at the sandy haired boy’s head and started a fight.

Cor quickly slinked out of the Great Hall.

He was cornered by Amelie Louis, a Hufflepuff in his year, who very earnestly thanked him for protecting the first year students in her house before leaning up and kissing his cheek while he tried to figure out what the fuck was going on.

* * *

Breakfast the next morning saw both of the Weasley twins draping themselves over his shoulders. From the corner of his eye he could see Potter glancing their way and chuckling a little pathetically before returning to his breakfast. Cor only drew the line at the contact when they started feeling up his arms, but when he tried to tell one of them to please let him go, he was trying to eat, he got another unwanted smooch.

He shoved both of them off then, and stormed off.

It was just like being back in the army. But at least the hazing here didn’t involve finding his personal belongings messed with, or bruises, burns, and sleepless nights. He didn’t have it in  _ this _ body, but he was pretty sure the scar on the heel of his foot from stepping on that broken glass was never going to fade.

Luna Lovegood kissed his hand when they ran into each other in the corridor. She very earnestly told him that she was glad he had woken up while holding her hand out. Thinking she just wanted a handshake, he had taken it, and then been stunned into silence and embarrassed flattery when she bent over his knuckles the way he had seen Regis do to Camilla Claustra the first time they met - exactly ten seconds before she planted those knuckles directly into his eyesocket.

* * *

“Do you actually know how to use that?” Potter asked behind him, sounding genuinely curious, as Cor paused on his way up to the high-ceilinged empty classroom on the third floor he had claimed for his sword-practice. He thought it might have been a room set aside for duelling back in the day, but he wasn’t sure. Either way, with the temperature and the snow outside, it was the best place for him to practice outside the Great Hall itself - and he didn’t think that place was going to empty any time soon.

He glanced over his shoulder at the Gryffindor, eyeing the daggers at his hips, “Yes. Do you?” he asked curiously, nodding to the blades.

Potter nodded with a small twist of his lips, “A bit, yeah. Never really had anyone to practice with though,” he admitted with a thoughtful look at him.

Cor felt his stomach go sideways on him. “Would you like to? Practice that is. With me?” he asked fighting to keep all signs of nervousness out of his voice. 

Potter was silent for a moment, looking genuinely interested as Cor glanced up at him, fingers caressing the handles of his blades in a way that was  _ incredibly _ distracting. He had thin fingers, and the words Umbridge forced him to carve into the back of his hand shimmered slightly in the torchlight on the walls, the different texture of the scars compared to his flesh making them more eyecatching.

“I - will probably have to get back to you on that,” he eventually admitted, looking faintly disappointed. “These are basilisk bone. Fairly sturdy but incredibly toxic. I wouldn’t risk them on a friendly. Give me some time to find a good replacement and you’re on.”

“I could - transfigure you some. That’s what kotetsu is. I transfigured it out of a - well. It doesn’t matter. We can make our own weapons,” Cor pointed out.

A sour look came over the Gryffindor’s face, “Fuck. I’m an idiot.”

Cor couldn’t help but grin a little.

* * *

The rules were simple.

No magic.

Serious injuries stopped the match.

If someone called out, they called out and it stopped.

Accidents happened, no hard feelings.

Cor wiped the floor with him.

He had been worried - that it would anger him.

Potter just shoved himself to his feet, healed the cuts and bruises, and demanded another match.

Cor had to work considerably harder for his next win.

They broke to tend to their injuries and drink some water, Potter was sweaty, flushed, and grinning, and fuck, Six help him, Cor didn’t know whether he wanted to fight him again or fuck him over the desk in the corner.

He did neither of those things, and instead offered some tips on his blade work.

Potter took them with interest, and then offered a few observations of his own - something Cor hadn’t been expecting. Like the fact that he tended to overreach himself, or that he left his legs open far too often. Something he had noticed by the sheer number of cuts and bruises that Potter had left on them. The guy was  _ fast _ . 

The next time they decided to spar, he made the mistake of asking Potter to help him incorporate magic into his combat.

The Gryffindor  _ kicked his ass _ .

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's all she wrote. I lost interest around that point. Story was going to continue with a handful of cracky moments - Ginny picking a fight with Harry because they both liked Cor only Harry kind of reflexively kerb-stomps her and is named the strongest Weasley for beating her. He then proceeds to have absolutely nothing to do with Cor what so ever and avoids both him and Ginny like the plague. Voldemort rocks up and there's a huge pitched battle, Cor and Neville get Nagini (cor breaks the ward and Neville kills the snake), and as soon as she's dead Harry is right on Voldemort and sinking both basilisk blades into him. Ding dong dead Voldemort.
> 
> Then they have to deal with the fact that magic has been discovered and England is freaking the fuck out. Witch hunts, etc. Vernon is on the news spewing all sorts of bullshit Petunia with him. The two of them are gleefully enjoying their exclusive interviews and the money received from them. And you know how witch hunts get. The populace get louder and more fearful and the magical world are still fractured and kind of falling apart. 
> 
> Cor suggests fucking off. So they do. Everyone runs off the Eos where they get the same refugee condition as the Galadhians - join the army for five/ten years and you can live here. The war with Niflheim gets VERY interesting with Harry's style of guerrilla warfare and magical abilities.


	9. Drying Ink

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tags: Accidental Marriage, crack treated seriously, date-rape drugs, (non-graphic) attempted rape, dumb teenagers, predatory creeps
> 
> Summary: Harry wakes up with a ring, a certificate with his signature and blood, and a husband. And no memory of how he obtained ANY of these things. Cor has an idea. He really wishes he didn't.

Harry was no stranger to waking up and feeling like he had gone eight rounds with a mountain troll. It was actually kind of a default sensation that made him worried when he _didn't_ feel like crap upon awakening – be it because it was far too early, he had nightmares, the bed at the Dursleys was just worn and lumpy and had a sharp spring _right there_ which he usually tried to pad out with a ball of Uncle Vernon's socks and a sad deflated thing they called a pillow, or he had actually gone up against a mountain troll again. It was when he woke up feeling fine that he knew he had spent time under Madam Pomfrey's tender loving care – and when he started worrying because he couldn't remember how he got there.

Waking up, feeling like he had been run over, his mouth tasting like the bottom of Hedwig's owl-cage in an unfamiliar room in a bed wearing only his boxers with a stranger was – well it took him a minute.

And then all hell broke loose.

All the lights exploded, the windows shattered, and he _immediately regretted all of it as his brain burst like an overripe grape and oh god why did he have to flip his shit now everything hurt_.

Then the door burst open and a group of strangers raced in with weapons and shouting and – Harry clamped his hands over his ears and squeezed his eyes shut.

He might have said something about paying them to actually shut up but whether they could understand him with how his voice cracked and rasped was hard to say. Either way, they shut up, and he found himself looking at a group of well dressed men who were gaping at him, at the stranger he was in bed with who was steadily going redder and redder, and there was glass everywhere.

In the absence of people attacking him, Harry did the only thing he could think of, he grabbed the nearest pillow and threw it at them.

“Get the fuck out!”

They got the fuck out. He grabbed the guy next to him before he followed them.

“Not you,” he growled glaring at the much larger boy, teenager, with short brown hair and blue eyes, “You. Are going to explain what the fuck happened last night.”

* * *

Alcohol happened.

Lots and lots of alcohol and asshole teenagers in Lestallum happened.

It took an embarrassingly long time before Harry noticed the fucking _ring_ on his hand as they got dressed and did their best to clean the room up a bit.

He could have pushed it off as a joke, dumb-teenagers y'know? He was well aware of how far a prank could go thanks to Fred and George and Snape's penseive. But then they found the certificate on the wooden table, it was signed, there was _blood_, and Harry had to sit down heavily in numb confused acceptance because of fucking course this was how he would get bloody married. To a complete stranger. During a festival that celebrated the blood fuelled quest for freedom and revenge and honour of a local legendary assassin.

He was married. He wore a ring. The other guy wore a ring. There was a signed certificate with both of their names. There was _blood_ on it. He couldn't even say it wasn't consummated either because he _couldn't remember_. And yeah, _he_ wasn't sore, but that said exactly nothing. Who the fuck knew. He didn't know what the rules were for same-gender consummation with this sort of thing. Did it even _count_ when they were both guys? Could two guys get married like this? He knew two dudes were at least legal in terms of marriage in the magical world, or his magical world to just be clear. But it was illegal in the muggle one. What about Eos? Was it legal here? Did the magicals here allow for it? Did whatever magical fabric of this world allow for such things to be magically binding like they were back on earth?

He didn't even know this guy's name.

Well. No. He did. He read the fucking certificate.

Cor Leonis. Okay.

...at least his name was kinda Gryffindor-y?

Harry dropped his head into his hands and tried to ignore how quiet and uncomfortable the other teenager was as he went about sweeping up the shattered glass, practically trembling with nervous tension.

There was a knock on the door and, thrilled for the interruption of his spiralling thoughts, Harry went to answer it.

It was the fancily dressed guys from before, all of them looking – still perturbed but less alarmed and horrified compared to previously. Harry stared at them with dull eyes before stepping back and letting them into the room.

“Please tell me _you guys_ know what happened last night?” he begged roughly, “Because neither of us can remember past five o'clock.” And Harry damn well knew he hadn't even met the guy by that point, he was busy eating his bodyweight in sweets at that point in time and winning every single shooting game Lestallum had on offer. He had been determined to win as many prizes as possible and then sell them later so he could afford to eat until his sixteenth birthday came and went and he was _legally_ allowed to sign on to the Hunters and escape the creepy guy who tried to pay him to sit in his lap at every chance he got.

The fancy guys exchanged looks of worry.

“Cor was with us until six o'clock. After which the local teenagers challenged him to a few of the games. He came back at about eight and told us they were going to be hosting games at someone's apartment and he wasn't sure if they would run on late or if he would spend the night,” the black gentleman informed them thoughtfully. “You, I am sorry young man but I didn't catch your name?” he prompted.

The semi-hysterical laugh he gave as he dragged a hand through his hair made Cor flinch and hunker down where he was sat at the bottom of the bed looking incredibly like a kicked puppy next to the fancy dark haired guy who could have been Sirius's brother for how similar the two looked. “Harry _Leonis_ now apparently,” he admitted, his voice cracking.

“Hold up,” the biggest of the guys demanded, holding a hand up. “Leonis? You two got _drunk married?_”

The Gryffindor nodded and dropped back into his seat, pulling the certificate out and shoving it at him, “Apparently so. But neither of us can remember it. But we signed it. And there's blood. And we have rings and – we don't _remember anything_.”

The oldest of them took the certificate and whistled, “Definitely official documentation. Got Shiva's seal an' everythin'.” He rubbed the parchment between his fingers and grimaced, “Nice paper too. Definitely from the registration office.” He went silent as he read the paper, “Harry James Potter, born thirty first of July, nineteen eighty, to Lily Catherine Potter -nee Evans, and James Charlus Potter, in Godric's Hallow, Wales.”

“Where is that?” the big guy asked frowning.

“Really far away,” Harry grunted. “What are your divorce laws?” he asked hopefully, looking up.

Confusion was the only thing on their faces. “Divorce? What's that?” the old guy demanded with a narrow stare and Harry felt his stomach drop.

“...the legal proceeding to nullify a marriage in the event of shit like this, someone cheats, abuse, etc, etc. You have to have something like that, right?” he demanded sharply.

The old guy showed him the certificate, “That little symbol there? Th'blue one? When that vanishes, then yer not married anymore. These contracts are made with magic. An' until th'Astrals deem yer union a bad one, yer stuck.”

“Great. So which one do I tell to take a hike this time?” he asked, ignoring the yelped 'this time' from somewhere behind him even as the old guy in front of him leaned back.

“Shiva's dead. Y'all'd have a hard time tellin' her anythin'.”

* * *

Cor did remember a _little_ about last night. But not anything he was going to admit to to his – his – _husb_\- no.

He remembered the gang of teenagers. How he didn't like how two of them kept shoving drinks into the small dark haired boy's hands, how they would always try to touch him and demand his attention. They went to the apartment of one to play games, an escalating game of Truth or Seven Minutes happened which he had never heard of, he remembered a spinning bottle and when he spun it and it landed on one of the unpleasant teenagers he said truth. They asked him personal questions that he answered while taking a drink. The bottle spun again and the two girls went into another room for seven minutes and came back out pink cheeked and covered in lipstick with messy clothes. A girl's bottle landed on him and she said seven minutes, they went into the other room and he remembered kissing and hands down his trousers.

Every time the bottle landed on the small dark haired boy he said truth or he downed his drink. He didn't like being touched he admitted when one of the questions was why he kept refusing to go into the other room.

Cor remembered swiping his drink a time or three when he could get away with it. Suspicious and wary of the two teenage boys who were paying him so much attention and that was when everything started going fuzzy.

He was almost certain both he and the other teenager had been slipped roofies because while he wasn't proud of it, he had drunk alcohol before, and he knew his limits were not inconsiderable given the amount of magic in his system on top of the lingering after affects of potions and antidotes and other such things.

He dimly remembered being the one to suggest the other teenager marry him after... _something_. Because then he could tell people he was married and Cor would never touch him unless he wanted him to because he wasn't an asshole.

Then there was a rooftop and they were.... climbing. And his knuckles hurt like he'd punched a wall or something.

The 'or something' being obvious when they left the Leville Hotel to get food for everyone, including his new hus- no, including _Harry_, and saw one of the pushy teenagers with a crooked nose and a black eye.

Cor remembered finding him on top of Harry in a bedroom down the hall from where everyone was, too drunk to do anything more than squirm and try ineffectively to shove him off.

He stopped dead in the street and stared, feeling a strange roaring in his ears as he realised what last night had actually been. A calculated attempt by two people to rape a third and use the overflowing alcohol and possibly the out-of-towner as an excuse/blame. He could even see how his thought process would go after that incident, after beating the shit out of the would be rapist and removing the victim from the scene – rule one of bodyguarding, remove the subject from the scene of tension and fall back to a safe location. Then look at the situation and figure out how to make sure it doesn't happen again. _He_ wasn't a rapist, and _he_ would respect the fact that this guy didn't like/want to be touched without permission. Other people wouldn't. They would get offended that this person took an issue with them. But they would respect loyalty. Cor respected loyalty. So if they got married, this person's refusal to deal with them was no longer a rejection because of them but rather a loyalty to his husband. So yes. If they got married he could use his husband as an excuse to turn people down and Cor would never trample on his boundaries so it was perfect and -

He wanted to go back in time and throat punch his past drunken self.

“Cor?” Clarus prompted looking worried.

He took a deep breath and silenced the air-raid sirens in the back of his head, “That one. He drugged our drinks. Drugged _his_ drinks. I got them mixed up. I remember finding him trying to – ” he cut himself off and Clarus' face darkened.

“Right. Well. You take care of your little boyfriend – don't gimme that look. You married him and it took. The Astrals clearly think its a good match. At least try to get to know him, you don't know how lucky you are. I'll deal with him,” the Shield grunted and stomped off, leaving Cor grimacing in his wake. Yes, he knew how lucky he was. His mother had been pregnant with him when their certificate was signed, and his grandfather immediately took his daughter and hid her away when Shiva's mark refused to show. The Astrals did not endorse her marriage to his father, did not approve. His grandfather always did say that he was the best thing that man had ever done. But for Cor, marrying someone who didn't know him, didn't like physical contact – something bad had happened to him, last night probably only reinforced whatever trauma it was that had him disliking it, and now he was MARRIED to a stranger. It didn't matter what Cor's intentions and character were. He was a stranger.

Well.

Maybe Clarus had a point and he should work on fixing that.

* * *

Weskham didn't know what to do.

He had taken a blood sample from both of the boys to be checked because of Cor's drug-claims, he didn't expect the results from young Harry to come back with _Lucis Caelum connections_.

Regis was freaking out. Clarus was freaking out. Cid had started laughing and didn't look to be stopping any time soon. And Cor looked like he was attempting to astral project himself into another dimension entirely.

All the while the young man in question was nursing a cup of tea and trying to glare through a blinding hangover at them.

Cor had saved a member of royalty from being raped, but ended up marrying them.

Shiva had accepted their union.

It was binding.

“Cor is a member of the Royal Family,” he managed to get out, which proved to be too much for Clarus and he had to sit down.

Cid was still laughing.

* * *

Harry would like it in writing that he hated everything about this – except the food.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This started as just a cracky idea of 'hah lol accidentally married Vegas Style', and then my brain pointed out Harry's touch aversion and Cor's respect for boundaries and how it wouldn't work like that and then it reminded me of the squicky plunny I had a long time ago that I didn't want to write and suggested I combine them so I did - only I took out the prostitution. I still left a hint in there for how it started. The creep trying to pay him to sit in his lap.
> 
> So yeah. For an idea that started cracky, it got dark quickly. 
> 
> but fear not. Cor was a perfect gentleman and kept his hands to himself regardless of how drunk they got. They haven't even kissed yet.


	10. Draco's No Good, Very Bad, Awful Day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **WARNING:** Draco's casual racism, Draco's terrible attitude, Draco's POV. So much gay thirst you guys, like, seriously. SO much.
> 
> Draco Malfoy hates Eos. He hates the people, the food, the accommodations, but above all - he hates Harry Potter more than all of them put together.

Draco hated Eos.

He hated Potter too.

He hated EVERYTHING about this place, its people, its – its _food_, ugh, just, everything.

“Stop whining,” the Gryffindor ordered dismissively as he cleaned that filthy muggle contraption that deafened and exploded and was nothing as useful or skilled or dangerous as a wand, and yet he insisted on continuing to use it regardless.

“I haven't even said anything,” he snapped furiously, seething in his seat.

“I can hear your mental bitching,” he stated without looking up. “Things could be worse.”

He scoffed, “Oh yeah? How so, Potter? How can our situation be worse? We're stranded in a completely foreign world, we have no way back home, we have no money, we know nothing about this place, it's full of _monsters_, there's a war; please, do en_lighten_ me as to how this can get worse!” he sneered.

He did something to the firewhatsit-leh?- in his hand, making it click and clack before he set it down, “Well. We could be alone, as in, separately alone. You wouldn't have me, I wouldn't have you. We could have lost our wands. I could have lost my glasses. We could have landed somewhere else, a lot further from civilisation, meaning we wouldn't have had warnings about the daemons at night. We might have landed in an active battlefield, or in a military base and gotten ourselves arrested and executed as spies, or even kept prisoner as experiments. We could have landed in the middle of the ocean, in a volcano, in the middle of Taelpar Crag, and I mean the middle in mid-air. Then there's the other side of the spectrum where we could have come out on a world with no breathable air and suffocated, a world with no sun so we would have frozen, humanity might have been enslaved like house-elves, or never exist. There could be plagues, diseases, food that was completely impossible for us to eat, there are a thousand things that could make our lives worse,” he listed flatly, meeting Draco's eyes head on without flinching and _curse him and those eyes of his_. Potter picked up the other fireleg and began to take it apart, turning his attention back down to what he was doing and Draco found his eyes lingering on the bloody scratch that swept up the edge of his jawline to tear at his earlobe.

Potter had, of course, taken to this savage world with more ease than Draco thought possible.

It was like _nothing_ phased him. It was both reassuring and _infuriating_.

For one shining moment when they'd first arrived Draco thought he would be in the clear, that he would prove himself and earn some respect at long last. They'd crashed into a frigid cold lake, and to his great surprise it turned out that Potter was a very poor swimmer despite his performance at the Triwizard Tournament. Draco had saved him, and, as they staggered up the muddy embankments, smugly informed the coughing and choking Gryffindor that he now owed Draco a Life Debt – only to have said Gryffindor snap his wand out and _reducto_ some manner of horrible toothy beast's head off as it had been about to rip Draco's off, showering them both with gore. Potter then rasped that they were even before getting his feet under him and flinging the other beasts away from them hard enough and often enough that they eventually left the pair of them alone, even as they staggered and fell in the mud up to dry land.

After that, it had just been one embarrassment after the other for Draco, and he was not handling it well.

Potter meanwhile made friends left, right, and centre, he got membership to this 'Hunter's Organisation', earning himself a set of dogtags and access to the local currency when he went out and killed beasts and brought back proof of those kills. He earned even more money when he brought the carcasses back to the cooks who sent him out, and sometimes free meals. They had to _walk_ everywhere, and Draco had _blisters_ and it was _hot_ and he ended up getting _sunburnt_ and _peeling_. Potter meanwhile slopped some strange muggle ointment on his skin that Draco refused to bloody well touch, and instead of burning as he should have his skin turned glittering shades of gold and bronze and Draco _hated him so much_. He walked and ran and dug in the mud and it was a mark of how _awful_ everything in his life had become that the nights where they slept in flea-infested metal tubes that smelt of leather and sweat and damp were considered _luxuries_ compared to sleeping on rocks in the wilderness under transfigured leaves for blankets.

Draco wanted to go home.

He wanted to go home to where things made sense, where he could have a _bath_ and a _real_ meal, something he hadn't seen butchered in front of him and cooked over a campfire by Harry bloody perfect Potter who, on top of being able to kill just about anything that could threaten them, run ten miles shirtless, and use fifth year curses silently, _could bloody well cook too_.

Draco hated him. He hated him so much.

He was pretty sure he had jerked off enough to go permanently cross-eyed or develop callouses by this point.

And damnit, throughout _all_ of this, it only served to hammer home how patently ridiculous Potter was as both a wizard and a human being and Draco Hated Him. Had he mentioned that? Had he mentioned how much he Hated Potter and specifically how deceptively tiny he was? With those big green doe eyes behind those dumb round glasses that made him look so innocent, and that fluffy black hair that went _curly_ and _floofy_, and he was _tiny and thin and it was all a filthy filthy LIE!_ They were fifteen, pushing sixteen, Draco was very smug and pleased with his 5'10” of height that he had attained this year, certain he would reach the towering six feet that his father possessed sooner rather than later. Potter was eye-level with his chin. And it took actually seeing the Gryffindor squaring up to _someone else_ before Draco realised this. Realised he was bloody well _tiny_ – and still the most dangerous thing he had ever encountered. No wonder the Dark Lord tried to kill him as an infant, it was clearly self defence.

(Draco saw him kill one of those tusky-toothy cursed dog things with his bare hands. He strangled it with his elbow and _broke its bloody neck_. Draco had never been more horrified, or turned on, in his life.)

“Excuse me,” a man interrupted his brooding, causing the two teenagers to look up. Draco found himself scowling reflexively at the muggles in front of him, at the sun-bronzed skin and bulging muscles and broad shoulders and _leather_ and _tattoos_ and, ungh, this was a personal attack on him. He was certain of it. “Are you two staying in the caravan tonight?” he asked politely, voice holding a strange accent to it that marked him as different to just about everyone else they'd met thus far.

“Yep,” Potter answered with forced casualness as he set the fireleg he was cleaning down on the table in front of him with a very pointed clack of metal. Draco felt the muscle between his shoulderblades tighten at the silent non-threat-honest. It was a threat right? He'd never seen or heard Potter threaten anyone until they got to this place, but a lot of the things he did made the hair on the back of his neck stand on end the same way it would when his father and mother were _definitely_ making polite 'this definitely isn't a threat' threats (they weren't threats, his mother told him, they were _promises_).

The muggle didn't notice, or if he did he was better at hiding it than his companion. The teenager next to him (golden skin, icy blue eyes, broad shoulders, thighs that could crush his head like an egg, he wouldn't mind, no, not for the chance of being between them – NO! Bad Draco! That was a _muggle_! Absolutely not!) scowled at them, both straightening up and tensing. Which _did_ things to the material stretching across his chest (now straining and this was another targeted attack and Draco would have his revenge for it, he swore he would). “Do you mind if we share? We won't be able to make it to the next town before nightfall,” the big muggle explained with a hopeful smile.

Potter leaned to the side and eyed the rest of his group over by the car that Draco _hadn't_ noticed until just then. The blond followed suit and scowled even more deeply.

“No, Potter. Absolutely not,” he warned, scowling at the blood Gryffindor as he studied the group. It was a fucking attack on him, and he was not going to tolerate it! It was bad enough sharing space with Potter himself, but throw in that lot? He was a healthy, active, fifteen year old boy. He would die. His heart could only take so much. He would end up yanking his own cock off by accident. “Potter....” he growled warningly when no answer immediately came forth.

The two muggles were looking between them, the big guy with growing amusement and the younger with an arched eyebrow and a suspicious frown.

“....Sure – ”

“POTTER!” he howled furiously, only to splutter when the bloody savage wordlessly reached across the table and physically slapped a hand over his face, nearly knocking him over and making him flail indignantly, grabbing both the table to stop himself from toppling, and grabbing at Potter's hand to get him to pull it down.

“ – there should be space since I have a hunt tonight. Just leave Malfoy to his own devices and there shouldn't be any trouble,” the Gryffindor informed them flatly as Draco finally had enough and bit his hand. He yelped, yanking his hand away, and the Slytherin immediately set to gagging and spitting to the side. Stupid, Potter's hands were covered in that awful muggle cleaning oil and whatever else he had been digging out of that bang-bang-contraption.

“You deserved that, prat,” the mudblood snapped, shaking his hand out with a scowl.

Draco was too busy gagging to come up with a suitably scathing and devastating retort. Lucky Potter.

* * *

Eventually the muggles introduced themselves, Draco didn't pay much attention but found himself absorbing the names regardless during the torturous few hours before and during sunset that they forced themselves into his personal bubble in order to socialise with Potter. (He had a large personal bubble, okay! He didn't want Potter in there _either_, and he didn't _care_ that they were more interested in talking to him than Draco. He didn't _want_ to talk to some uppity hot muggles in fancy outfits and bulging muscles and swords.)

Big Muscles was Clarus.

Young Muscles was Cor.

Dirty old man was Cid.

Gentleman was Weskham.

And the one that looked like a Black was Regis. And he was apparently some kind of nobility if the poorly hidden deference the others paid to him was any indication. They, like everyone else they'd met, assumed both he and Potter were from some horrible country called Tenebrae and they were on the run from the Empire to the Crown City – both of them were quick to deny it. They were just stranded and waiting for their families to come and rescue them, but in the meanwhile, still gotta eat.

“So you're hunting?” Big Muscles asked, eyeing Draco doubtfully. He was offended. He could hunt if he wanted to! He just _didn't!_

He sneered, “No!”

“I am,” Potter admitted without inflection. That was because he was a savage. Draco turned his nose up and sniffed in disgust. He wasn't risking his life for a handful of coins just to eat canned meat warmed up over a campfire in the middle of bumfuck nowhere.

Big Muscles frowned at that, “He nobility or something?” he asked, and Draco immediately decided he liked this one best. And liked Potter the least when he barked out a scornful laugh.

“He wishes. No, he's just a prissy berk,” he declared dismissively. Draco bristled, swelling up ready to fight only to have Potter affix him with the cold dead-eyed stare of a promise to feed him bugs again, bugs and only bugs for a week because Potter was a _savage who didn't mind eating giant bugs if it made Draco's life hell_.

He closed his mouth with a click of teeth and _seethed_ at the injustice of it all.

Injustice that was thankfully short lived as Potter went to go and collect the rest of his weapons and head out for his hunt, leaving Draco alone – _and hungry_.

He scowled upon realising that Potter hadn't bothered to cook him anything before he ran off to go and play with deadly reptiles or whatever it was he was poking with a large metal stick this time, and now there was something delicious smelling wafting out of the muggle metal-tube where Gentleman was lurking and it was making his mouth water and his stomach rumble. This was absolutely unfair. He didn't _care_ if it was undignified, he folded his arms, slouched in his chair, and sulked. He was justified in doing so!

Dirty Old Man snorted at him, “Yer boyfriend cook fer y'all then?” he asked, and Draco spluttered, jerking as if burnt even as his face blasted hot red.

“HE IS NOT MY BOYFRIEND!”

Eyebrows were arched, and Young Muscles snickered a little before vanishing into the horrible flea-tube.

His face was burning and he hated all of them, he didn't care how attractive any of them were, they were awful verminous muggle filth.

“May I ask when your relationship is then?” the Black family look-alike questioned, smiling charmingly as he tilted his hair and had to reach up to push a few stray artfully falling dark hairs back behind his ear. If Draco's face hadn't already been red, he would have flushed and he knew it. Looked like he'd found the Prince Charming member of the group apparently.

“There _isn't_ one,” he snapped unhappily, “We're just stuck with each other. And we _hate_ each other. Bloody Perfect Potter, the Professor's Perfect Pet,” he spat glaring at the far wall.

He did not see the looks of amusement exchanged between the older members of the group while he sulked.

“Oh?” Charming prompted, looking perfectly curious and attentive when Draco glanced at him. How many years had it been since anyone actually _listened_ to him when he complained about Potter? Not even his mother paid attention to him anymore and Draco found himself turning to face the man with _years_ of grievances on the tip of his tongue – _and had to swallow them_. He was a _muggle_. Draco was going to have to edit all his complaints to hide his magic.

He started with Potter's ridiculous DA and how he was _blatantly_ breaking school rules by having it and how all the other teachers showed such favouritism and how Madam Umbridge was the only one who tried to reign him in and the many years of feuding with Professor Snape that resulted in fireworks in the classroom, stolen materials from the store-cupboards, _fires_, how he ended up in the Hospital Wing one year with a concussion. He complained about how he was such an attention hog, and _violent _too – he got banned from his school sports team for attacking him only earlier this year.

There was a loud thud and Draco jumped near enough out of his skin as Potter appeared beside him with a massive crab-claw almost as big as him over one shoulder and then slammed it down onto the ground next to him.

Draco had only ever seen Potter that angry a few times, and he found himself scrambling backwards for his wand only to freeze because he _couldn't_ pull it out here, and he didn't _know_ the _obliviate_ spell yet and -

“You're honestly surprised that I lost my temper while you were insulting my dead mother? And the woman that practically adopted me after? Really?” he demanded caustically getting into his face. Draco opened his mouth to retaliate that Weaselbee's mother wasn't a woman, she was a horklump, only to be cut off before the words formed. “Then again, what can I expect from the son of two people who worked for her murderer?” he asked icily and Draco purpled.

“My parents – ”

“Aren't here,” Potter cut in, “I am. And I'm the only thing keeping you alive right now, Malfoy. So keep your forked tongue behind your teeth for once,” he spat before shoving his shoulder to one side and stalking into the flea-tube.

“...What about food?” he found himself blurting.

“**STARVE!!**”

He winced at the bellow from the flea-tube, and grimaced when he saw the expressions on the muggles faces before shaking himself and sneering, what did he care about the opinions of muggles?

Big Muscles whistled appreciatively, “Well you just put your foot in it. Impressive set of lungs for such a little guy,” he observed lightly, as if what had just happened was only mildly entertaining and not three inches away from a bloody visceral murder incident. As if Potter hadn't been about to disembowel him in front of them all.

Charming nodded, looking pained but sympathetic, “Agreed. Perhaps you should avoid such painful subjects in future?” he suggested helpfully, and Draco hissed at him, glaring with narrowed eyes.

“If his parents weren't mudbloods and blood traitors then they wouldn't have deserved what they got,” he snapped, and was gratified to see the look of surprise and disgust momentarily flicker on his face. Apparently dirty blood was a turn off no matter what world you lived on. “Everyone acts like it's such a tragedy, Potter most of all. They only care because he survived and the Dark Lord vanished, acting like he's so _special_ for getting his face disfigured.”

“I CAN _HEAR_ YOU, MALFOY! SHUT THE FUCK UP BEFORE I COME OUT THERE!!” Potter roared hitting the flea-tube hard enough to make him jump near enough out of his skin, and suddenly remember that neither Granger or Weasley were there to hold him back, and Professor Snape wasn't going to be there to haul his ass out of the fire, and Madam Pomfrey wasn't around to de-jinx him.

He snapped his mouth shut and scowled, hands fisting angrily as the muggles exchanged looks and got to their feet, leaving him alone in silence, heading into the flea-tube where Gentleman flashed them a smile and said, “I was about to come and get you. Dinner is ready,” he announced, presenting a plate of something that wouldn't have looked out of place on his dinner table back at home.

His stomach growled, and he cursed, kicking the table.

He swore as his toe bent badly and pain flashed up his whole leg.

This was _unfair!_

* * *

Potter was facing the wall in his top bunk, blankets pulled up, and pointedly stiff and _ignoring him_ when he came into the flea-infested tube. Part of him wanted to hit the Gryffindor to see what he would do, but he could see the muggles watching him from where they were eating around the tiny table at the other end. He ignored them and instead grabbed his bag and headed into the tiny water-closet where he did his business, brushed his teeth, and then tried to figure out how to use the muggle shower. Potter had shown him how to do it once, and he had been too proud to ask him again and so suffered various too cold or too hot showers in stubborn silence.

He would eat a house-elf for a proper bath right now.

He managed to get the wretched thing working, it was a little hotter than he would have liked but it was better than nothing, and definitely better than too cold. If he was being forced to stay in this flea-infested tube then he was at least going to be _clean_. He stayed under the spray until it ran cold, because this whole place was absolutely awful and muggles were stupid and dirty and their water didn't stay _hot._ He was forced out to dry off and redress, taking a second to charm his clothes clean and his hair back to perfection before stepping out with a sigh of relief.

Relief that smoked and shrivelled as he stopped to see Potter smiling and _laughing_, sat up on the edge of his bunk, leaning forward and kicking his legs like a child as he _listened_ to Young Muscles who was saying _something_, his voice too quiet for Draco to make out even at the close range they were at as he leaned against the edge of the bunkbeds, arms folded, his tilted arrogantly, legs crossed at his ankles. Draco hated him. The rest of his group were watching the interaction with mild amusement or doing their own thing and Draco felt his stomach flip-flop with a strange mixture of anger and possessiveness as Potter laughed again saying, “I hate those things.”

Hated what? What did Potter hate that made that – that filthy _muggle_ smirk up at him in agreement, icy blue eyes bright and gold tan skin and – Draco hated him.

Potter glanced over at him and his expression shuttered almost immediately, the muggle frowning to see it before following his eyes to where Draco was. He grimaced a little before pushing himself back to his feet properly, “Tomorrow?” he asked, drawing the Gryffindor's attention back over to him, and away from Draco.

His expression eased into a smile, and Draco gritted his teeth at the sight of the almost sweet expression, “Sure. Thanks Cor,” he said with _that_ smile, the smile he showed that mudblood and Weaselbee, the one he'd _never shown to Draco_.

It felt like he'd swallowed something out of Longbottom's cauldron as he scowled, watching the muggle turn away and return to his group. He stalked forward and grabbed Potter's ankle, tightening his grip as much as he could to stop him from jerking his foot away. “Tomorrow _what_, Potter?” he hissed, glaring over his shoulder at the group with naked suspicion and gritted teeth.

Potter kicked his leg, “Not that it's _any_ of your business, Malfoy, they're heading to the Greyshire Grotto tomorrow. I have a hunt there and don't know where to find the damn place, they very _kindly_ offered to show me the way. Let go of me!” he snapped, and Draco saw him reach for one of those horrid knives of his from the corner of his eye and snatched his hand back before he lost a finger.

“And you're trusting them?” he seethed.

“A damn sight more than you,” the Gryffindor spat with narrowed eyes, and Draco flared at the very real sting of hurt that comment caused.

A loud yawn interrupted them before Draco could snarl something utterly cutting and destroy Potter like he deserved, Big Muscles stretching hard enough to make several joints pop as he _loudly _declared: “Bed time I think. We've got a big day ahead of us tomorrow.”

Potter was quick to pull all of his limbs back and out of reach, scooting to the far edge of his bunk to the point where if Draco wanted to get a hold of him again he was going to have to climb up using his own bed as a footstool – which would mean putting dirty feet on where he planned to sleep. He scowled and then had to follow Potter's example and get into his bunk as the other group began to stampede their way to the rest of the beds – then _clothes_ started coming off and Draco just about swallowed his tongue before yanking the curtains that separated his bunk from the rest of the room shut.

There were a few complaints over who was sleeping where but eventually it was arranged that Big Muscles, Charming, and the Dirty Old Man would have the large double bed at the back, the one that stretched the entire width of the flea-tube that Draco had attempted to lay claim to when they first arrived. Gentleman had the lower bunk because he would be the first awake and didn't wish to disturb the others while he got breakfast ready, and Young Muscles had the top bunk because he was the lightest sleeper and had the best _knees_ of the group, whatever they meant by that.

The next morning he woke up alone, Potter and the other group were gone.

He ignored the stab of nervousness as he looked around his nigh abandoned surroundings. Potter wouldn't just up and ditch him here, he was too much of a Gryffindor and they _needed_ each other out here. Or so he kept reminding himself as he prowled around the tube restlessly looking for something to eat, his stomach twisting unhappily with every empty cupboard he found, with the empty sink, and the empty cold white box that whirred and lit up when he opened it. The muggles' car was still out the front, along with the giant crab claw that Potter had brought back the previous night, but other than that there was nothing. Potter hadn't even left his awful sweater like usual.

He paced, and muttered angrily, and fingered his wand, and contemplated just _leaving_.

Let Potter figure out how to handle things without him.

_If_ he could handle things without him.

Draco was absolutely certain he was the first and only voice of reason Potter had ever actually _had_ in his life.

He paused as he heard laughter outside and peered out of the window, scowling as he saw the muggles and Potter crossing over towards the caravan. When he saw Potter _wearing someone else's jacket!_

Gentleman rubbed his hands together, “Hot drinks all around, I should think. Any preferences?” he asked as he began to bustle his way towards the door.

Charming laughed as he sat down, “After dealing with that nest of daemons, I would love some hot chocolate,” he announced to a chorus of agreement from everyone around the table as they began to collapse into the available seats. Potter practically _huddled_ in his, folding himself into it in a way that only highlighted how tiny he was as he hugged his knees to his chest and shivered in his borrowed jacket, the sleeves folded up but only to the point where the tips of his fingers could be seen and Draco wanted to shoot himself for thinking it was – pathetic, absolutely pathetic.

“Ah,” Gentleman greeted as he opened the door and stepped inside to see him at the window, he paused for a moment, “Mister Malfoy was it? Care to join us for something hot to drink?” he asked with a kindly smile.

From the corner of his eye he saw the way Potter's head popped up and turned as he placed a hand at the side of his mouth to direct his shout, “Hey Malfoy! They've got magic too!”

Wait. What.

“WHAT?!” he yelped, scrambling out of the flea-infested tube to stare at them.

Potter nodded, grinning at him like he would have if he'd just gotten off a broomstick and was smiling at Weaselbee, it made Draco's stomach twist and fizz with _something_ (indigestion. Had to be.), “Yeah.” He turned to the other teenager, and Draco felt his excitement turn dim and sour in his mouth at it, “Cor, show him, show him. It's really cool.”

He watched as the teenager's ears went a little pink and his blue eyes flicked away from Potter's face shyly before with a twist of his hand he _conjured_ a sword out of blue-white light, raw crystalline magic flaking off the blade like fracturing ice, and Draco glared at him and the grin of admiration on Potter's face.

“That's it?” he demanded shortly, “I knew your standards were low, Potter, hanging around with Weaselbee and Granger, but this is just pathetic.”

Young Muscles scowled at him but Potter just rolled his eyes, “Get some new material, Malfoy.” He then turned to the other teenager completely, “Can you channel that elemancy stuff through your weapons or is it only the canisters?” he asked eagerly, ignoring Draco completely.

Young Muscles glanced at him from the corner of his eye before turning his attention to Potter as well, and ignoring Draco completely. “Only the canisters. We're working on conductive weaponry but getting the materials is difficult, and then there's finding the people with the right proficiency,” the teenager explained as he tipped the blade over and _Merlin_ it was pointlessly ostentatious and _gaudy_, wrapped in Gryffindor red leather and metallic dark _pearls_ with a shiny gold little shield talisman and, ugh, never mind how pointlessly large it was. Clearly he was _compensating_ for something. Draco sniffed dismissively watching with narrowed eyes as the other teenager explained the composite metals in his sword and how it was made to be able to deflect and withstand magical attacks, but despite that it wasn't well suited to channelling elemancy – he explained something about the discharge causing 'hairline fractures' through the 'folded metal' while Potter nodded along as if it made sense, and Draco hated both of them, but especially Young Muscles. What self-respecting wizard used a _sword?_ Potter didn't count, he was a savage and they all knew it.

Gentleman appeared then with a large tray stocked up with various mugs of hot chocolate, darker than Draco was used to seeing. Exclamations of gratitude went up amongst the group as the tray was set down and the mugs were portioned out. Potter having to pull his too long sleeves up to accept his as he uncurled and dropped one leg off the chair, looking sinfully comfortable in the _un_comfortable metal chairs.

“Here we are, young man,” Gentleman announced, handing Draco his own cup. “So, you are _both_ magic users?” he asked curiously as he conjured his _own_ chair using the same blue-white light and crystalline dust that the sword had been conjured out of.

Draco nodded stiffly as Potter practically shoved his face into his mug like an animal, “Yes. But I'm sure you know just as well as I that _some_ wizards are _better_ than others,” he huffed with a scornful look at Potter who rolled his eyes and pulled his face out of his _trough_ with a sigh of relief.

“If you think for a single heartbeat that _Crabbe_ and _Goyle_ are better wizards than Ron or Hermione, I have some questions about your standards,” he declared disdainfully, and Draco scowled at him.

“Vince and Greg are leagues better than that mudblood and blood traitor!” he snapped, furious and offended on their behalf. Yeah, they weren't too bright, that was hardly their fault though, they worked hard for the marks they hard, Potter didn't see the hours they spent in the Common Room with their books and Pansy helping them read. And yeah, they probably should have gone to Hufflepuff instead of Slytherin for how they continued to stick with him through thick and thin and the dumbest of his decisions in Slytherin, but they were his best friends, and he wasn't going to stand there and listen to _Potter_ of all people slander them!

Potter eyed him coolly, before wrinkling his nose and turning away. “I disagree, but I don't know either of them personally outside cracking their knuckles and failing to look menacing.”

Draco was _offended_.

“They don't _fail_ to look menacing! They _are!_” he snapped.

“To first years maybe,” Potter retorted snidely, glaring at him from over his mug.

Poison green eyes and lightning bolt being the only visible parts of his face.

Draco pressed his lips together feeling a chill down to his bones as his mouth went dry and his stomach twisted with something that felt like very real fear. Realising for the first time that Potter's sense of proportion was _completely messed up_. He didn't find Vince or Greg threatening because he had gone nose to nose with a werewolf, tangled with Dementors, outflown a dragon, and gone face to face with _the Dark Lord himself_.

Potter didn't find anything in this world terrifying, he took to this world because it was _nothing_ compared to what he had already experienced and Draco was only just realising this.

He set his drink down and shoved his shaking hands into his pockets, retreating to the flea-tube to collect himself, walking slowly and purposefully so as not to let Potter realise just how shaken he was. Don't run, his father whispered to him as a child during bedtime stories of monsters that lurked in the dark streets of muggle cities. Never run because they will chase you. Show no fear for they can _smell_ it.

“What was that about?” he heard one of the non-muggles outside ask.

Potter just scoffed, “Malfoy hates losing arguments. Just ignore him.” Unknowing and completely ignorant to how much of a _monster he was_. He thought Draco was walking away because he couldn't think of a good reply, not because he'd realised just how terrifying he was.

* * *

“So, what kind of magic do you use?” Big Muscles asked when Draco finally marshalled himself enough to surface from the flea-ridden tube (after thoroughly washing his hands after dealing with the inappropriate fear-boner he developed once behind closed doors) to try and bother Potter into cooking something edible, only to end up having to watch Potter strip out of the too large jacket he had been drowning in and return it to that sword wielding pleb with a smile that immediately made Draco want to curse something.

“What?” he snapped reflexively, scowling at the huge man before shaking himself. “Magic-magic. All kinds of magic,” he scoffed, narrowing his eyes on the other two teenagers, not noticing the looks of amusement on the other mens' faces as they watched him glower at the pair.

“How about you show us some? You've seen some of the Armiger in action, and your friend there's seen elemancy and shielding. What can you do?” he asked, folding his arms over his considerable chest.

“What? Oh, fine, yes. Alright, I'll throw some charms around,” he grumbled, tearing his eyes away from the _disgusting_ sight of Potter actually _blushing_ at something the other teenager said. He scowled thunderously and levitated one of the empty chairs skyward, making it do a loop'de'loop before setting it down and then changing its colour from shiny silver to dark green and then giving it a thick coating of hair before vanishing the whole lot, leaving the chair untouched.

Big Muscles whistled, “Well. That's.... something. Can you do anything else?” he asked curiously, and Draco scoffed. He was the best Duellist in Slytherin outside the Seventh Years!

“Hey Potter!” he barked, turning to the irritating Gryffindor, “_Expelliarmus!_” he barked, snapping the disarming charm at him, hoping to catch him off guard and break up his stupid conversation with that sword moron.

Potter sidestepped the jet of red light with a look of disgust on his face.

“What the _hell_ was that, Malfoy?” he demanded.

“I would have thought you could recognise the disarming charm, unless your defence grades are as bad as your potions!” he retorted smugly.

Potter shook his head, “That was the sloppiest disarming charm I've ever seen, Malfoy!” he barked before snapping off one of his own too fast for Draco to get out of the way before it _punched_ him in the gut and blew him off his feet and onto his ass, skidding him several feet to crash into the metal frame of the flea-tube behind him, and sent his wand spinning through the air directly into Potter's hand. “Also, are you stupid or something? Did you _forget_ I was _teaching_ Defence to the majority of the OWL and NEWT students? And we all received extra credit during exams for doing that well?” he demanded harshly as Draco wheezed, stomach aching like a bruise as he struggled to sit up, embarrassment and dismay burning like a brand across his cheeks as he looked up through dishevelled blond hair at the other boy.

“So you'd be the one to ask about combat magic, huh?” Big Muscles asked admiringly and Draco could have spat wasps.

Potter dragged a hand through his hair, “Out of the two of us, yeah.” Draco saw him glance his way and pull a face, “If it's Potions or Ancient Runes then he'd be the one to ask,” he admitted reluctantly.

Big Muscles laughed, “Don't hurt yourself.”

Potter scrunched his face and stuck out his tongue at him, “If you'd spent five years dealing with him, you'd hurt yourself too,” he complained.

Draco muttered curses onto Potter's ancestors as he struggled to his feet and dusted himself off, “Screw you, Potter. Gimme my wand back,” he snapped, limping over and snatching it off him when he held it out without argument.

“You use magic with those?” the sword idiot asked, and Potter _handed his wand to him!!_

Draco blanched and went red at the same time at the absolute – how could he – did Potter even _know_ what he'd just _done?!_

“Sure,” the Gryffindor hussy answered, and launched into an explanation of wand lore and the various ways of focusing magic that he knew of that Draco had never even heard of as Big Muscles arched an eyebrow at the look on his face. Draco could only gesture helplessly in mute horror at the way the sword idiot _FONDLED_ Potter's wand curiously, and the – the Gryffindor just _let_ him! His mother wouldn't even allow his father to handle her wand like that unless it was life or death!!

Big Muscles eyed the pair in amusement before glancing at Draco, “I take it you're more of a healer?” he asked pointedly and Draco wrinkled his nose.

“Merlin no! Healing is for Hufflepuffs and the lower class,” he huffed in disgust. “I'm a _Malfoy_.”

Big Muscles arched an eyebrow at him, still looking amused, but interested.

Draco scoffed, “My _father_ has the ear of the Minister himself, and works on the board of Governors,” he boasted smugly.

Potter made a scoffing noise and Draco scowled at him, _daring_ him to bad mouth his father, but the Gryffindor only rolled his eyes.

“What about yours?” Big Muscles asked, as if Draco hadn't told them all Potter's family were dead and buried and the world was better off for it.

The Gryffindor shrugged, “They were Aurors. Magic law enforcement,” he explained, collecting his wand and tucking it back into his pocket. “They died trying to bring people like Malfoy's father to justice,” he stated flatly.

“My father was under _imperio_, Potter,” Draco snapped and was given the flattest most disbelieving look he had ever gotten off the other teenager in his life.

“He definitely wasn't under imperius when he crawled on his hands and knees to kiss Voldemort's crusty toes last year.”

Draco whipped his wand out, blood roaring furiously in his ears.

“Whoa there, none of that,” Big Muscles declared, _still_ sounding bloody amused as he _effortlessly_ grabbed Draco's wrist, preventing him from using his wand, with one hand, and hoisted him up _off_ his feet with the other and physically walked away from Potter even as the sword moron reacted in almost _exactly_ the same way when Potter leaned forward, snatching his wand back to defend himself only to end up hoisted over the moron's shoulder and carted away with a yelp.

Charming and Dirty Old Man roared with laughter from their seats.

* * *

Potter still hadn't cooked anything, and Draco was certain he was doing it out of spite now.

Gentleman was, however, a gentleman, and made enough for everyone, including Draco and Potter – not that he deserved it the lazy good for nothing. Something he made sure to inform Potter of when they sat down, making the Gryffindor sigh in aggravation and then pointedly ignore him to talk with Charming who eagerly chattered back.

Draco scowled, picking at his food and watching the two from under his lashes, grimacing at Potter laughed freely at something. He shoved a forkful of something creamy and fishy into his mouth and chewed aggressively, tasting nothing.

Sword moron sighed, “If you like him that much maybe you shouldn't antagonise him so much,” he muttered quietly so only Draco could hear. The Slytherin spluttered, almost choking on his mouthful, and the moron just rolled his eyes and nudged a glass of something pale and cloudy at him. The taste of lemons cut through the fish on his tongue as he drank, and burned on the way down his throat as everything in his mouth puckered with sourness.

“I do _not_ like him,” Draco hissed as he practically slammed his glass down, glaring at the moron, feeling his face burn in mortification. He did _not_, absolutely not! Potter was a savage and a mudblood, and his father would hit the roof if Draco expressed anything but a frothing desire for the Gryffindor's gristly demise.

Moron's eyebrow went up sceptically, muttering about how Draco could have fooled him before his icy blue eyes slid away to examine Potter who was _still_ pointedly ignoring him and now avidly explaining transfiguration to Charming. He looked back at Draco, “Then you won't mind if I ask him out then,” he decided as he turned back to his food and dug in.

He was pretty sure his thought processes screeched to a panicked stop.

“W-what?” he croaked, voice cracking embarrassingly.

Moron looked him dead in the eye, defiant and challenging, daring him to say otherwise. “You don't like him, I do. So it won't be a problem if I ask him out.”

His jaw dropped. He _gaped_.

He wanted to ask _Potter_ out?! _Potter?!_

He actually thought he had a _chance_ with _POTTER?!_

“Ask who what now?” the Gryffindor interrupted, peering at them with a bewildered and slightly suspicious frown, glancing between the moron eating as if he hadn't said anything, and Draco who was aware he was gaping like Longbottom in arithmancy and someone had just showed him two plus two.

He snapped his mouth shut and glared at him, “Nothing, Potter! None of your business!” he snarled, stabbing at his dinner, feeling the back of his neck burn in embarrassment as the Dirty Old Man laughed along with Big Muscles, and even _Charming_ snickered a little. Moron opened his mouth and Draco jumped as if hit by one of Pansy's stinging hexes, shoving both of his hands into the moron's face to smother anything coming out of his mouth, “I SAID NOTHING DAMNIT!”

The moron only rolled his eyes as laughter blew up around the table and Potter just looked _confused_. Because he was an idiot. Like a cat with the way he tilted his damn head like that, all big green eyes and fluffy black hair and – Draco panicked as the moron grabbed his wrists and pulled them away with insulting ease even as he struggled. Circe damnit, what were these people made of?

“Where are you headed next?” he asked as he let Draco go, instead of asking literally anything else and Draco. Hated. Him. So much.

Potter hummed as he took a sip of his own lemon drink, “I was thinking of heading back to Lestallum,” he admitted before giving Draco a _look_, “That way Princess can get a job and stop mooching off me.”

M-MOOCHING?!! He spluttered furiously as Potter smugly turned back to his food.

Moron nodded, “Cool. Want to hang out later then?” he asked, cutting into his fish without looking up and gathering up some of the tangy greens along with it. Watching Draco from the corner of his eye, just daring him to say something and prove that he actually liked Potter. He found himself opening and closing his mouth like Longbottom, trying to think of something to say but unable to come out with anything that wouldn't incriminate himself.

Potter grinned, “Sure. There's this crazy blacksmith in the backalley you have to meet. The man is literally bugnuts,” he laughed.

Moron smiled softly at him, turning away from Draco entirely, “Just to make it clear, I'm interested in you, I'm asking you out on a date.”

It was incredibly gratifying to see the mental hiccup Potter had as he processed this, freezing in place and blinking at the moron with his fork half raised to his mouth. Less gratifying was the pink flush that crawled up across his cheeks, and how he went all _shy_, lowering his fork and leaning back with raised shoulders, “Oh. Um.”

“But if you're more comfortable keeping it friendly, that's good too,” Moron assured him easily, sounding so completely unfazed or unaffected by the hesitance that Draco stared at him in abject confusion. If _he'd_ scraped up the balls to ask Harry bloody Perfect Potter out on a date and got _that_ reaction he would never show his face in public again – NOT THAT HE WOULD EVER ASK POTTER OUT! EVER! HE WOULD HAVE TO GO INTO HIDING BECAUSE HIS FATHER WOULD KILL HIM!!

Potter looked away, fiddling with his sleeves as he bit his lower lip in a _very_ distracting way that Draco couldn't stop himself from watching, “Ahh... let's – just stick with friends for now,” he said awkwardly, watching the moron from the corner of his eye.

He nodded, “For now,” he agreed, smirking as he took a mouthful of his drink, blue eyes watching him intently from over the rim of his glass.

Potter went _red_, and kicked him under the table.

Draco groaned, “Kill me now,” he begged, hiding his face in his hands. He didn't want to see this. He didn't want to know the mating habits of idiot Gryffindors, he could have gone his _whole life_ without witnessing this and _died_ a happy man.

“That can be arranged,” Potter hissed at him with a scowl.

“No murder at the dinner table,” Gentleman interrupted, causing more laughter around the table as Big Muscles started to rub his young friend about scoring himself a date, and Charming assured Potter that Moron would be a perfect gentleman and he was a really lucky guy and – Potter looked torn between continuing to murder Draco no matter what rules there were about dining etiquette that it would break, or hiding under the table to escape the attention.

Draco hated Eos.

He hated the food.

The people.

But especially Potter.

He hated Potter the most.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I will DEFINITELY be coming back to this AU, fuck it was so fun and I have plans for the future X'DDDD in particular tormenting Draco further. In particular with the knowledge that he cannot perform the Patronus charm. And not only can Ron do it, so can Luna, and Colin, and Dennis, and **Neville**. Poor Draco. He thinks the Retinue like him, he is very wrong.
> 
> Draco: notice me potter  
Harry: god you're a loser  
Draco: >8U
> 
> Cor:  
Draco: i loathe your existence attractive stranger  
Cor: *looks at Harry*  
Draco: Potter is a slut and I am trapped in the worst love triangle ever.  
Harry: did you say something?  
Draco: I detest you.  
Harry: bitch me too the fuck
> 
> Cor: you gunna have that?  
Draco: ABsolutLY NOt  
Cor: 3 2 1 dibs  
Harry: you know what this may as well happen


	11. Little Feet, Part 2: Cor Edition

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **WARNINGS:** Mild gore & violence, sexual harassment, attempted child abuse, fluff, tooth-rottening FLUFF.
> 
> An encounter with a Solheim ruin results in a pint-sized 4 year old Cor. The results are about what you'd expect.

Cor took a step forward – and looked down as they _all_ heard the click of something move. Everyone except for Harry as he hit the console in front of him, cursing vividly.

But he heard the loud crack and the raised voices, whirling around to see the Insomnian trapped in a huge glass tube from the ceiling a second before everything went **red**, bathing the room in blinding, bloody red glare.

“Cor?!” Regis' voice yelled through the blinding red light as all the power went out, and the ruins plunged into pitch darkness, and silence. The background hum of absorbed energy vanishing.

“Get the lights!” Clarus barked.

“Cor? Cor, answer me! Are you alright?!” Weskham called, stumbling forward in the darkness.

“_Lumos!_” Harry commanded, bathing the room in light from his cupped hand even as both Regis and Cid got their chest lights going, and froze. Staring in disbelief at the glass tube that...

“Oh... Six...” Weskham murmured faintly, staring down at the _four year old_ glowering suspiciously up at them all from within it.

“C-Cor?” Regis asked hesitantly, kneeling down in front of the tube and the child whose face screwed up furiously with suspicion.

Harry goggled, “Holy shit. He shrank,” he muttered, drawing a tiny scowl from the boy who blinked to see him and then scowled _harder_, scrunching his little face up. Fuck that was adorable. Harry turned away to examine the console, listening with half an ear as Regis talked to the child in the tube, trying to reassure him about what was going on and that they would get him out quickly and that Harry would figure out what happened and get him back to normal. Yeah, good luck, he might know how to speak Solheim, but he didn't have the faintest clue about science and even his magical knowledge was uncertain at the best of times.

“COR NO!”

Harry whipped around just in time to see Cid make a wild grab for the four year old as he bolted _out of the door into the ruins proper_. He missed, and Cor vanished into the darkness further up the corridor and _straight into a daemon nest_.

His magic sliced out and he apparated into the doorway behind the child, by-passing Regis as he limped forward, cupping himself in pain where he had been kicked or headbutted or punched in the groin. He skidded on the dusty floor and flashed after the child again, feeling his blood freeze at the sight of the Ronin looming ahead in the darkness.

He caught the four year old around the chest and whirled him around, throwing him back down the corridor – and felt the hot burning punch of the daemonic katana go through his back and out his stomach.

He had never been stabbed before, he realised almost absently, slightly hysterical.

It felt.... like getting winded.

Like getting punched in the back, and suddenly all the air in his lungs was gone, and his limbs felt like rubber.

Cor landed in a heap, rolling across the dirty floor as the rest of the Retinue rushed over, summoning their weapons. His eyes were huge, dominating his tiny face, watching in horror as the Ronin physically lifted Harry up off his feet – now _that_ hurt. He couldn't stop himself from screaming as his insides _burned_, it felt like his spine was being ripped in half as he wrapped his hands around the blade in his gut and kicked out reflexively.

He was thrown like yesterday's trash to the side of the hall and Clarus _slammed_ into the daemon with a roar, thrusting him further back down the hallway as ireshkegal dropped from the ceiling, shrill cackles filling the air, as they went at them. Regis and Weskham summoned their dual blades, unwilling to risk longer swords and guns in the tight confines, and Cid brought out his lance to swat them out of the air before they could land on them.

And then Harry saw one crawl over everyone's heads and aim for Cor.

He was moving before he even thought about it.

His magic threw him forward, on top of the child, and he grunted, gasping in pain as scythe-like claws raked down his shoulder and back to the sound of the little boy shrieking in terror even as Harry wrapped an arm around him to cover him properly, and another under them both to push them to his feet.

He heard Regis yell something harsh behind him, there was a clashing sound of metal, a cut off shriek, a greasy pop of a daemon bursting, and then he felt the Prince at his side, arm going around his waist as he staggered down the corridor back to the room.

His legs gave out as soon as they passed the threshold, Regis being the only thing that stopped him from falling and crushing the toddler in his arms, of smashing his skull open on the hard stone floor. Harry rasped in pain, feeling the two move around him.

“Cor, I need you to help me here,” the Prince begged quickly as he lowered Harry to the ground, holding him up against a leg to keep his wounds off the dirty floor.

“Y-yes,” the four year old croaked, his voice wet and wobbling with terror.

“Hold his shirt up for me, like that, yeah. Well done, just like that,” he praised as he peeled Harry's bloodied shirt up to see his injuries, the child holding them away from the wounds so he could see them properly. Regis grimaced, mentally thanking the Astrals for the first time that his cousin had a preference for obscenely bagging clothing, it might draw more eyes than he liked to the teenager, people thinking him fragile and in need of care, but at least it made access to injuries easier. He could feel Harry's fingers digging into the back of his calf and see the shifting planes of his back muscles as the unsticking irritated his injuries. But he was trying really hard not to make a sound and frighten the child even further.

“You're doing really good,” the teenager managed to grit out, smiling tightly through the pain as he rubbed the four year old's back before having to turn his face away in order to grimace and grit his teeth as Regis accidentally jarred him, moving his leg as he summoned a Hi-potion to crack across his back.

“You okay, did that do it?” Regis asked, smoothing a hand down the sixteen year old's back, smearing the blood, but soothing the icy-hot itch of his skin where the injuries had closed over.

Harry grimaced as he stretched, “Yeah. Yeah, I'm fine. I'm good.”

It was at that point that the four year old burst into tears proper and heaved incoherent apologies, practically throwing himself against Harry who blue-screened for a split second before quickly hugging him and looking up at Regis in horror.

How the hell did he handle a crying four year old?!

* * *

Cor eventually cried himself out and fell asleep against Harry, but it took a frustratingly long amount of time in which he would tearfully refuse to let anyone else take him, much to the Gryffindor's distress and concern. How the hell was he supposed to figure out how to reverse this if he couldn't get the kid off him long enough to check the consoles?

Still, once he was asleep, the Retinue dragged out pillows and blankets from the Armiger to put together something for him to sleep on while Harry conjured some lights and got to work, Regis hovering over his shoulder as the only other individual who had the vaguest grasp of Latin due to his upbringing. He was less than useful but Harry understood his desire to help and didn't tell him to fuck off out of his light. It was probably a good thing he was used to Ron and Hermione in his ear while he tried to concentrate otherwise he might not have been able to focus on the text. Adrenaline always did help him pull out his best effort.

“Good news,” he announced quietly to the rest of the group, hopeful looks immediately formed on their faces, “While I have no way of turning him back _now_, the effects aren't permanent. He'll revert back to normal himself in about a week or so if my maths is right.”

Clarus leaned back against a console with a sigh of relief, while Weskham pressed a hand to his chest and huffed a half-laugh. Cid patted a beaming Regis on the back and the two of them exchanged happy grins.

“So, what happened? Why's he pint sized?” Clarus asked with a cautious glance to the sleeping toddler. Cor spoke highly of his mother and grandfather, but at this point in his life he was still living in... what was at its least flattering and perhaps most accurate description – a slum. He was small. Very small. Clarus didn't know if he was small for his age though, he hadn't seen many children but Cor didn't even come up to _Harry's_ hip and he was titchy. He couldn't see much else of the boy, he had been wearing second hand clothes that were a little too big for him. They were clean at least, well, aside from Harry's _blood_ which was.... actually everywhere, and Clarus felt anxiety burning like a hard fist in his chest to see it.

Harry dragged a hand through his hair as he closed his notebook, “Basically? Some scientists were trying to unlock the secret of immortality using magitek time manipulation. Attempting to separate mind and body, regress the body to a younger state, and then reintegrate the two so that the adult mind continued to exist within the child mind. Obtaining immortality. Of course they _failed_. They never could figure out how to separate body and mind, or get it to _stick_. They basically just rewound a body back to a certain point, like a spring, but it would eventually unravel and the subject would ping back to how they were before. It would take a day for every two years they regressed.”

“He's gonna be pocket sized for six days?” the Shield blurted, he did say about a _week_ but that was.... concrete. Six days of pint-sized Cor.

He shared a glance with Regis and Weskham, already imagining the amount of _blackmail_ they could gather with a grin.

* * *

Cor woke up as they gathered him up to leave, and the little brat _bit_ Cid before fleeing behind Harry, grabbing at his leg and scowling at them all.

The old man huffed on a laugh, shaking his hand out, “Looks like yer the designated babysitter,” he declared much to Harry's dismay.

He looked down at the little boy, who didn't even notice, too busy trembling ever so slightly as he gripped his clothing in white knuckled hands, clearly unwilling to get anywhere near the strangers around him. He sighed and patted the kid's head, nudging him away a little bit as he knelt down.

“Cor, we have to leave now. I need you to hold onto me tightly and stay as quiet as you can, alright?” he explained gently as the rest of the Retinue summoned weapons. An idea occurred to him suddenly, “Cid, can you gimme that rope again?” he asked, and caught it as the old man pulled it out and winged it at his head. He smiled at the toddler who eyed it suspiciously, “We'll be running and fighting daemons, so, I'd feel better if I strapped you to me, it would be like carrying you in a backpack or – or like they do in the army when they have to carry their injured friends back home. Just on my front so I can protect you better. Is that alright?”

The four year old's eyes slid down from his face to his neck, cheeks blowing out a little before he nodded, “Okay,” he muttered.

It was the work of twenty minutes to get him tied into a child's version of the harness he used back in Crestholm Channels while they were rescuing those people, easier even because he was so much smaller and lighter, and willing to cling to the rope straps that went over Harry's shoulders like a koala. Harry kept one arm around him none the less as they began their run back to the surface, staying firmly in the middle of the Retinue as they raced through the corridors and tunnels, his gun in hand, taking Lumos shots at every opportunity.

It took a while for him to realise that Cor was crying, his eyes screwed shut, face buried against his chest with one tiny hand wrapped tightly around the Shiva necklace around Harry's neck, the other gripping the harness.

They burst out into darkness, and Regis led the charge to the nearest Haven.

Harry's shoulders and back were killing him as they finally came to a stop, the rope was digging into his skin harshly, he really should have thought to wrap them as he knelt down and began to free himself.

“There we go. We're out and safe now, we're on a Haven, we're okay, you're okay, it's alright,” he soothed as best he could, gently wiping the child's face as the rest of the Retinue began to get their camp set up, both Regis and Weskham throwing looks of concern and anxiety in Cor's direction. No doubt wanting to go over and help him as well, but not wanting to distress him either.

Harry smoothed gold-brown hair from the child's face and hugged him, rubbing his back as he felt one skinny little arm go around him, and another latch onto his necklace again. He wondered if Cor recognised it. He did say the charm came from Genji, which had been his grandfather's before him. Perhaps he thought Harry was friends with his grandfather and was willing to trust him because of that?

Did he even know who they were?

Harry shifted and got himself comfortable because he had a feeling this was going to be a _talk_.

“Hey... you okay?” he asked gently, wiping away a few tears with his thumb, “I know its scary, being surrounded by strangers in a strange place, with all sorts of things that go bump in the night,” he said, having to tilt his head as the child settled in against him, point blank refusing to let go of his necklace. “I'm Harry. We were friends. We were all your friends.”

He sniffled and gave the necklace a little tug.

“You gave it to me,” Harry explained, gently stroking a fingertip across the top of the boy's hand, “Do you remember the big room, with the glass tube where you saw us first? That was an old machine, the people that made it made it so they could become little again, but they did it wrong,” he began to explain, trying to think of a way to dumb his words down enough for a child to explain.

“I know that,” Cor mumbled, scrunching his face up unhappily, “You said so before. I was big, and it made me small. But I'll be big again in a week.”

...Genius. Right. Had to remember that.

“Yep. You were our friend when you were big, and everyone's really nice, I promise. They won't hurt you,” he promised, only for him to shake his head again and practically shove his face into Harry's armpit, hand tightening on the necklace. He sighed a little, and rubbed his back, “Okay. But you can't hide behind me forever, Cor. We're going to have to go and get cleaned up soon.”

“No!” he yelped, jerking away as if burnt, blue eyes going huge.

Harry arched an eyebrow, “Yes. Cor. Look at me, I'm covered in blood.”

“No bath!” he objected, and Harry heard a poorly stifled snicker from Cid and leaned back, folding his arms as he stared down at the little boy who quickly arranged his own facial expression into something he probably hoped showed how stubborn and resolved he was. It involved a lot of squinting and scrunching his nose and pressing his lips together.

He arched an eyebrow at the child who began to look a little uncertain and nervous the longer he stayed quiet.

“Dirty little boys don't get hugs,” he finally decided, watching as his eyes went wide again and his mouth opened before his whole face reddened and screwed up.

“Hugs are for babies anyway!” he snapped.

“Are they indeed?” Harry echoed blandly, “That's a shame, I happen to like them,” he blatantly _lied_, and shot a glare at the rest of the Retinue who were watching the battle of wills in fascination and disbelief at the naked bare-faced lie he just uttered. He got to his feet, “But I guess if you want to be stinky, you'll just have to sleep outside the tent, because no one wants to be near someone so smelly.”

Panic crossed the little boy's face as Harry began to strip out of the rope harness he was still wearing.

“But – but – the daemons – ” he blurted, and Harry nearly hit himself. Yes, he was a _child_, and there were _Daemons_, fuck he was a heel. Cor was a _normal_ child, genius aside, he hadn't had to deal with Vernon and Petunia's particular school of neglect and self-sufficiency.

“Better get cleaned up then, ey?” Cid chimed in mercilessly before Harry could turn around and rescind his words.

“NO!” the child declared with a stomp of his foot. “NO NO NO NO!”

Regis laughed a little anxiously, “Perhaps, just this once – ” he began to suggest only for Harry to plant both hands on his hips and glare at him in exasperation.

“He is _covered_ in my blood, Regis!” he pointed out, gesturing to the little boy who looked down at his clothes with sudden realisation and horror. “We are _all_ covered in blood and dust. _Everyone_ is getting cleaned up. Cor,” he announced, turning to the little boy, “It won't be a bath. But you will be getting clean, otherwise fiends will be able to smell you and they'll want to eat you. Not only that but you might start attracting bugs or get sick. Dirty people get sick, and make other people sick, do you understand?” he asked as reasonably as he could. He was probably being a little harsh, Cor was _four_, but he was supposed to be smart too, and the sight of a four year old covered in blood was making his hands itch. He didn't want to see it, he knew he would be seeing it in his _nightmares_. Fuck, what if he hadn't been fast enough in those tunnels? What if that Ronin had stabbed _Cor_?

He glanced to the others for help, he honestly didn't know what the appropriate response was here. He just knew it wasn't what he got when he was a child, which was a clip upside the head, and being dragged into the backgarden and hosed off with cold water like an animal.

* * *

The argument about bathing was resolved when everyone decided to leave Cor to his own devices and focus on getting themselves cleaned up first. When he saw that they were using buckets and cloths of hot water and soap, with Clarus deciding to lighten the mood by whipping Regis with a towel, the Prince retaliating with a handful of water and soap to the Shield's face, and then a massive waterfight breaking out that involved the rest of the group, little Cor ended up getting involved with the water fight and Cid seized his opportunity to snatch him up and give him a thorough scrub. Expertly dodging flailing limbs and howling with the skill that only a parent could manage.

Poor boy, getting cleaned behind his ears, how traumatic.

Harry got to work on cleaning their clothes while Weskham worked on dinner, Regis and Clarus made several calls as they debated on their next steps, it wasn't like they could continue their exploration efforts with a four year old in tow, not only that, but Cor absolutely couldn't continue on in just the one change of clothes, it was unhygienic. Right now he was wrapped up in one of Harry's shirts, and crouched beside him watching the rest of the Retinue with deep offence and suspicion.

He ruffled the kid's hair with a soapy hand, grinning at the offended scowl he received before going back to getting blood out of their clothes.

“You weren't just friends, were you?” the boy eventually asked, making Harry paused a little and look at him with a bewildered frown.

“Of course we were. What makes you think otherwise?”

He taps his throat, “Shiva. She's the Astral of _Love_,” he pointed out the 'duh' all but spoken. “An' its the one from Grandpa's sword. So it's definitely mine.”

Harry could feel his cheeks beginning to get warm. Nice of Cor to _explain_ that.

Wait – _that sneaky fuck!_ He hadn't said a damn thing! And Harry had been walking around with it around his neck like a frickin' – oh god, no wonder he'd had a distinct _lack_ of people bothering him since. He was all but announcing to all and sundry that he was spoken for.

He pressed his lips together and plunged his hands back in the water. He almost wanted to correct the boy and say it wasn't love but he was _four_, to four year olds there was love and hate. With very little in between. If his older self had given Harry the Shiva charm then to him it was clearly love. If Harry said otherwise then it was going to go _badly_. (Never mind the messy tangle of emotions involved. He was definitely going to have to have a serious conversation with Cor when he was back to normal. And kick him for pulling a fast one – even if he had never once told Harry to wear the charm or anything, fuck, did he _know_ that Harry had been unaware of the meaning? Why the hell hadn't Kimya _told_ him?!)

“...We were more than friends, yes,” he agreed eventually before smiling down at the kid, “But you don't know me right now, so don't you worry about that.”

He nodded reluctantly, waiting until Harry went back to cleaning before asking, “Do we have any kids?”

* * *

Given how highly strung the kid was around the others, both tents ended up pitched and both Harry and Regis shared with Cor while the rest of the Retinue were finally given the space they deserved to stretch out properly.

Everyone was in a very good mood when they woke up the next day, except Harry who had been woken up by Cor several hours ahead of when he would reasonable desire to be so, suggesting that this should be a more permanent arrangement. Cid and Clarus especially seemed enthused about the sleeping arrangements.

They ate breakfast, and then packed up.

Cor stopped as soon as they came to the car, “That's the Reg-lia,” he stated before looking up at them. “That's the King's car. What's it doing here?”

Harry looked at Regis who smiled a little uncertainly, “Uh, my Dad let me have it.”

Cor frowned at him, “Your Dad can't let you use the King's car! It doesn't belong to him!”

Cid actually laughed while Harry coughed into his hand, “Actually kiddo, he can. Since Reggie's pappy _is_ the King.”

Blue eyes went wide as Regis smiled at him, “I'm Prince Regis, all grown up. You work for my father, and he sent you with us to protect me.” He then cast a look of amusement at Harry who raised an eyebrow at him, “You decided you'd rather protect Harry instead but since he's a Lucis Caelum too – ” he dodged out of the way of the irritated kick Harry threw at him, “ – father said it was fine. _Someone_ had to keep an eye out for him, and I already had Clarus.”

Big blue eyes turned to Harry who sighed. “You're a Lucis Caelum?” he asked in disbelief.

Harry shook his head, “No.”

“Yes,” Regis corrected with a sunny grin, throwing an arm around his shoulders, “You've heard the stories about the Wanderer, right?” Cor nodded, “Well Harry here is descended through one of his sons, everyone thought they died but it turns out they didn't. Harry doesn't think it counts because he's a hunter and wasn't raised to it.”

“Hunter?” he echoed.

“Meldacio Hunter Association, they go out and kill daemons and fiends and protect the people of Lucis while the Crownsguard and the Army fight in the war,” Clarus chimed in, ruffling Harry's hair as he walked past to get into the car, “Kid's probably their youngest recruit for a while, but he's already one of their best.”

Cor nodded furiously, “_Obviously!_” he declared certainly.

“Awww,” Regis cooed, and Harry rolled his eyes, elbowing him in the gut.

* * *

Regis spent the entire car journey to Lestallum telling Cor all sorts of stories about Harry and his exploits, and with Clarus sat between them, he couldn't retaliate and hit the Prince – well, he did, and Clarus did exactly nothing to stop him. Pretending ignorance whenever Regis whined at him, making Cor giggle, even as he clung even more tightly to Harry.

He really wished they'd stop bigging him up.

They reached Lestallum and Cor stuck close to him as they split up and headed for the markets, Harry dropped by the tipster at the back to collect his rewards and hand over his proof of destruction. They got a few food skewers from Ajax, one of the vendors that Harry had gotten friendly with in recent weeks, they lived in the same building, and the guy laughed himself sick to learn that the child was in fact Cor, freshly shrunk from a run in with a Solheim device. The man said it served them right for poking around things that had nothing to do with them, shoved a box of free skewers at them, and waved them away, chortling the whole way.

Harry then headed to the Cutlass window to get a refill on his ammo, Cor looked around the weapons with huge eyes and Miteo behind the counter thought he was cute and took him through an explanation for all the weapons on show. The naked longing on the boy's face at the sight of the swords was adorable, but there was no way Harry was giving a child a sharp stabbity weapon.

He did however see a few training books and asked Cor if he wanted to take a look at them, only to be grumpily informed that he couldn't read yet. Harry shrugged and said he'd read them to him, at which point he almost got knocked off his feet by a hug before he asked for the one about daemons. Miteo laughed and said he'd have a better understanding if he looked at the bestiary Harry had been putting together, he'd seen more kinds of fiend and daemon than any other hunter that had washed up in Lestallum in recent years – all that running around with the Prince and the Lady Auburnbrie.

Cor looked at him with stars in his eyes and Harry promised to let him look at his bestiary later.

It was as they were walking away from the Cutlass store that things became..... awkward.

Anne-Marie appeared.

Cor understandably did not appreciate the strange girl draping herself over Harry's shoulders, especially when Harry told her to go away (he had told Anne-Marie in the past he didn't appreciate being leaned on, or touched, but she continued anyway. She was one of the plant workers, and had taken a shine to him recently and wasn't too interested in taking 'no' for an answer, which now that he realised the significance behind the Shiva charm was worrying – even _Ludo_ had backed off when he saw that).

The encounter resulted in Cor screeching, kicking her several times in the shins, and Anne managing to get maybe half of an angry slap on the child's face before Harry punched her _out_.

He scooped Cor up, stepped over her as she wailed, clutching her face, and stormed off as several people began to converge on the scene.

In the plaza, he set Cor down on a bench and checked his face, “You okay?” he asked quietly, frowning angrily at the scratch her nails had made on his forehead. He was going to report her to her manager for this, he had been contemplating it previously but hadn't wanted to make a fuss of her behaviour and risk her employment, but she'd raised her hand to a _child_.

He nodded and scowled at him, “Do you like her?” he asked suspiciously.

“No,” he stated, “She's awful and I'm definitely telling on her for hitting you.” He must have said the right thing because Cor grabbed his necklace again and snuggled in close.

Harry dug out some of the remaining skewers from the box Ajax had given them to share with him, picking him up and sitting down on the bench with him in his lap properly as they waited for the Retinue. Cleigne was annoyingly hot, and he could feel sweat beginning to bead on his hairline, especially with the little furnace in his lap. Maybe he would suggest icecream when they got back?

...Did Lucis even _have_ icecream, he wondered?

* * *

They spent the night at the Leville, split up between two rooms. This time it was Clarus who slept in the same room as Harry, Regis, and Cor in his duties as Shield – on the havens they could be reasonably certain nothing and no one would attack them. The blessings the Oracles and Messengers laid upon the stones ensured that nothing and no one with harmful intentions could approach, Harry had literally been chased onto a haven by Kill Stealers once and none of them had been able to stand getting near to the stones, developing crippling headaches when they tried.

But hotels didn't have such assurances, so Clarus stayed in with the two 'Royals', and their pint-sized accompaniment.

Come morning though, Harry shoved his head under a pillow and stubbornly tried to get some more sleep – only to end up having to go and break Clarus and Cor up when the Shield did _something_ objectionable, who fucking knew what, that set Cor off to screaming and kicking and hitting him. Or rather, trying to. As Clarus seemed to find it hysterical, dangling the child from an ankle in mid-air like Harry had seen some of the 'cool' uncles/parents do at the play-park with their children. Cor didn't seem to appreciate it as much as those children did though.

So really, Harry was tired and generally grumpy with the world as he collected the child in question from Clarus and took him into the bathroom to use the facilities. Thank fuck he was potty trained at this age. It wouldn't have been _much_ of an issue, Harry had afterall wiped _literal _horseshit up from beneath Buckbeak's tail* in Care of Magical Creatures, and later at Grimmauld Place when he wanted to do a job that didn't involve doxies. Kids wouldn't be much different, would that? Less likely to break his foot by stepping to one side. But thankfully all he was needed for was holding the four year old up to wash his hands and brush his teeth afterwards.

Breakfast was then sought and everyone ended up piling into the Regalia to go to Keycatrich rather than risk the Empire making another push at them in Lestallum.

Harry took a much appreciated chance to nap for the journey, and woke up to see Cor in Regis' lap, the Prince pointing out interesting landmarks and fiends to the little boy as they drove much more slowly than usual towards Keycatrich. He huffed slightly in amusement at Weskham's obvious favouritism and yawned, stretching hard enough for several joints to pop, which only drew Cor's attention and he quickly abandoned Regis to crawl onto Harry's lap.

“Guess Cor's always had a type, eh?” Clarus chuckled, nudging Regis who pouted at his perceived abandonment.

Harry yawned, tightening his grip on the four year old, “Suck it losers, I'm the favourite.”

* * *

Melba and Alba thought Cor was absolutely precious, Layla didn't want to have anything to do with him, not even for attention from Harry, she actively hissed at the child much to Alba's amusement as she apologised – Carol was at that _grabby_ stage that little babies often got to. Layla was often a stationary target loaf and thus suffered a few traumatic incidents.

Cor didn't seem particularly bothered, much more entertained by the dogs who were always eager to play than a pissy cat who wouldn't come down off the windowsill or the top of the cupboards anyway.

Harry made sure to keep an eye on them the whole time, unable to really push aside those childhood memories of Ripper and his mother, Regina, and what they did to him. He knew he shouldn't tar all dogs with the same brush, but by the same virtue, they were all animals, and all animals had a snap-point and their own instincts. Accidents happened, and children were notoriously bad at reading the warning signs. So he kept an eye on them, even as Mid chuckled and teased him a little bit, and Clarus called him a Momma Chocobo.

He relaxed a lot more when other children showed up to try and entice the four year old away from the animals to play. Not that he had anything against Mid and Melba's dogs, they were cute little fluffy mongrels more likely to commit murder via drowning their victims in saliva or smothering them with fluff, but – yeah. He wasn't going to be taking any chances.

A couple of people he met at the garden party appeared, asking after his health and he let himself be distracted and enjoy talking to people his own age for a change of pace while the children played.

At least until a scream reached his ears and one of the girls gasped, hands flying to her mouth.

He whipped around, hands going to the throwing knives he never went anywhere without, only to freeze and shake his head.

“Cor!” he snapped, jogging over and physically _pulling_ the four year old up and off the other child from where he had been furiously punching and kicking everything he could reach. “That is enough! What do you think you were doing, young man?” he demanded setting him on his feet and keeping a tight hold of his arm.

The four year old glared up at him with watery eyes and a trembling lower lip, chubby cheeks blotchy red with rage, “He was sayin' bad stuff about refugees! And that they should be left out for daemons!” he exclaimed, pointing to the sobbing little boy who, was actually a lot bigger than Cor, and now had a bloodied face.

Harry sighed, fuck, of all the shit that had to pop up and trigger him at _this_ age.

“That sounds like something someone else told him, not something they actually believe. There's no need to hit people for being wrong, Cor. Just tell them they're wrong, explain why, and if you can't do that, walk away. Idiots will only drag you down to their level and then beat you with experience,” he lectured sternly. “I want you to apologise for hitting him. Ah!” he held up a finger when the four year old opened his mouth to protest, “You hit him, Cor. Is that an appropriate thing to do? If I said something that someone disagreed with, would it be alright for them to hit me?”

His expression went from muleish to horrified and then tearful as he rapidly shook his head, “No!”

Harry nodded, “Well then. Apologise to the other boy, and then we'll take him home and talk to his parents about the kinds of things he's been saying to others,” he stated as he released Cor and carefully helped the other child up and fussed over his nose. It was just a bleed, nothing broken, he would likely have a few bruises and the scrape on his elbow was easy enough to dust off.

Cor was incredibly reluctant and unhappy about apologising, but he did it anyway, which was probably about as good as Harry was going to get.

He took both children back to Mid and Melba's, using the excuse of cleaning the other boy, Nile's, injuries up before leaving Cor to Weskham and Regis and taking him back home to his parents, smiling with a few more teeth than necessary as he explained the situation as he returned their child to them. Suggesting, as politely as possible, that they try not to air those kinds of opinions around children who haven't yet learned what is and is not appropriate to say to the faces of various refugees and their children. And those who happen to think that everyone deserves to be safe from daemons, no matter what.

And if his dog tags were clearly on display instead of tucked under his shirt, and he had his guns visible, and made certain to thicken his accent, no one that knew him was around to call him out on it.

Cor absolutely didn't want to play with the other children afterwards, but that was fine. Harry brought his bestiary out and told him stories about anything he wanted to know about, and when he got bored with that, Harry took his pistol apart and showed him how to clean and put it back together again.

* * *

They spent the remaining three days safely in Keycatrich, it was a nice break and an opportunity to catch their breath after the last couple of weeks of running hither and yon with the Empire on their heels. Cor introduced harry to a bunch of new childrens' games and demanded to know why he'd never heard of them before, he really didn't like the answer of how Harry wasn't allowed to play games because he had chores to do. He understood, but he didn't agree, telling him sternly that his grandfather said that children had to be children.

So Harry was then shown just about every game imaginable, and a few he was pretty sure Cor invented on the spot. Harry practically hid on the roof for a little while just to get some time alone because, holy shit, he knew that kids were tiring, but he had never once considered how exhausting being their sole focus for several days could be. New respect for parents like, fuck.

He came back down to find Cor absolutely _glued_ to some manner of cartoon currently playing on the television and mouthed a heartfelt thank you to Mid who chuckled and offered him a cup of something that had _definitely_ been doctored with something alcoholic. He shook his head and pushed it back, he wasn't a fan of alcohol and he really didn't want to be drunk around Cor as a four year old. Or around the Retinue at all who were scarily perceptive and still _digging_ for information that he would rather not share – he was pretty sure they had already twigged that the Dursleys weren't good to him, but like hell was he giving them the full scope of how awful it was.

Thankfully, everything returned to normal eventually. Cor popping back to himself during a BBQ one evening in the Arums' backgarden while he was playfighting with Clarus.

Well.

Clarus was play fighting.

Cor very well could have been attempting murder, he was four, it was hard to tell. He was doing his level best to dislocate Clarus' kneecaps regardless, and had bitten his hands already when he was foolish enough to try and hold the hell-child off with a hand to his face. He didn't do it again.

It happened when Clarus had 'dramatically' fallen to the ground, pretending death, and then yelping in an exceptionally undignified fashion when Cor didn't take 'down' for 'defeated' and pounced on him with a war cry. Regis and Cid were absolutely no help, pointing and laughing at the pair as Clarus got his ass kicked by a four year old, even Harry had to chuckle, watching as the dogs barked and raced around in excitement with all that was going on.

Then Clarus yelped in real pain and suddenly – there was Cor. All six foot of him sprawled out on top of the Shield, looking thoroughly bewildered by that fact.

“Get off me, you punk!” the Shield wheezed before snatching him up in a headlock and rolling over.

Cor gagged as he was pushed onto his stomach and squashed. He hooked a foot around the back of Clarus' knee and then shoved himself upwards, jabbing the shield in the armpit with his hand and twisting his head into the crook of his elbow and ducking free of his grip. They then, of course, continued to rough-house and playfight, somehow managing to draw Regis into their tussle while Harry was accepting a drink from Weskham.

“Harry! Harry help!” Regis cried as at some point he ended up on the bottom of the pile of sweaty heaving man flesh, green eyes practically bugging out of his skull as he was crushed.

He eyed the trio and then grabbed hold of both Cor _and_ Clarus with his magic and lifted them off Regis entirely, levitating them to separate corners of the garden and then dropping them.

“What I wouldn't 'ave given ter do that when Mid was a brat,” Cid mused with naked jealousy.

“Ahahaha, nice timing, the food's ready!” Mid called, prompting a rush for slightly flame-charred meats.

Harry meanwhile made his way to Cor instead, “You alright?” he asked, holding a hand out to pull him to his feet. His hand was as rough and warm as it always was as he tugged him upright, and even though he was getting better at it, he still tensed a little when instead of letting go, Cor took a step forward and hugged him once on his feet.

“Yeah. Sorry.”

“It's okay,” Harry said with a chuckle, leaning into him, “You were a cute kid. Bit of a handful but it's okay.” Then he remembered the necklace thing and kicked him, lightly, in the shin, “That's for not telling me about the charm.”

He felt Cor laugh more than he heard him, “I thought Kimya explained it.”

Which, yeah, fair enough. “Except she's been trying to get us together almost as much as Regis.” If he'd asked, of course she would have explained it, but since he didn't _know_ to ask, she kept it quiet. Probably both because she approved of Cor, and to keep the usual creeps away from him.

“You two can cuddle later! Come get something t'eat!” Clarus called, and Harry felt Cor huff and let him go with a muttered promise to gag the Shield later, and Harry had to bite back an inappropriate quip that wouldn't have been out of place in Gryffindor Tower after a quidditch victory where the butterbeer was a bit more freeflowing and 'temperamental' than usual (re: The twins added firewhiskey for shiggles).

Harry leaned up and kissed his cheek before he got too far, “We're sleeping in the living room, if you can wait that long,” he murmured, and it was only _slightly_ suggestive.

But that was apparently enough if the pink tinge to Cor's ears was anything to go by when they went to go and get their dinner and endure the teasing and ribbing of the rest of the Retinue regarding baby-Cor's tastes in men. Particularly in how he took one look at Harry and decided he liked him best over everyone, which, adorable, but also questionable.

Cor scoffed, “He took a Ronin blade for me, and he's wearing my Shiva charm. Of course I'd like him best,” he scoffed with a roll of his eyes, hooking his ankle with Harry's under the patio table as he bit into his burger eagerly.

Regis grumbled, “When you put it like that it's a lot less cute,” he complained.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> bby!Cor: *upon seeing Shiva Charm* Oh. This is my husband okay.   
Harry: your what now?  
Adult!Cor: Dibs.
> 
> Yeah. Baby!Cor spent the majority of this fic thinking Harry was his super strong and awesome and amazing husband. We obviously all know better, but is anyone going to enlighten the baby to it? Of course not. He might cry.


	12. Deleted Scene: Toad

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **WARNINGS:**
> 
> Harry finds someone that's been cursed into a Frog - and yes he knows they call it Toad here, but toads do not have that kind of hopping power, he should know, he has lived with Trevor, it's a frog - and decides to help. Problem is, without a wand, he has to go old school.

Was that...?

Harry was shocked. He dropped his guns and bolted away from the table, holding an arm out to stop a passing car as he raced across the road and scooped up the frog mid-leap and skittered to the far side to let the traffic go without argument.

“Close one. You nearly got squished,” he commented to the frog that struggled and croaked indignantly at him. “Sorry buddy, I know this hurts. Frog skin doesn't agree with human skin. Bear with it for now. I'll get you some water to wash off with,” he promised as he headed back to the table, listening as the croaking became confused. “Yeah, I can tell you're human. That's a pretty distinctive curse you're under, thankfully it's easily fixed. I'm just not going to do it in public,” Harry explained with a wrinkled nose as he set the frog down on the table he had been sat at and picked up his cereal bowl. “Stay here while I clean this out for you. I need to finish cleaning my guns, and then we'll head out somewhere quiet to get you changed back. Okay?” he asked with what he hoped was a reassuring smile.

The frog watched him almost suspiciously before croaking once and then settling itself down to wait.

Harry smiled at it again before heading off to the side to rinse and wipe his bowl clean before heading back and emptying half his bottle of jetty into it and helping the frog climb in. He chuckled a little at the obvious relief and immediate effort to soak itself entirely. One of the worst things about that curse wasn't that you were tiny and suddenly weak, but that you didn't know how to _take care of yourself_ properly. People often ended up with rashes and skin lesions and other unpleasant problems when they became human again because they hadn't known how to care for themselves as frogs and toads, he explained as he continued cleaning his guns.

It's a pretty old curse, common in a lot of fairytales, but they usually over-complicate the cure, citing true love's kiss and what not. Absolutely ridiculous. It worked, it wouldn't be in the stories if it didn't work, but there were other ways too, and they always made far too much of a big deal over it.

He finished his guns and stowed them away, “Okay buddy, it's been great but let's get you back on two legs. C'mon,” he announced, scooping up the bowl and heading out of the outpost to find somewhere discreet. “Have to say though, you absolutely can't tell anyone, my friend. It would cause an _awful_ lot of hassle if I got found out. You have to promise not to tell anyone. Croak once for yes, two for no.”

The frog croaked once.

“Okay, awe-” it croaked again quickly, and Harry cut himself off and stopped, looking down at the bowl with a raised eyebrow and a suspicious scowl. It blinked at him. “...I am going to go on _good faith_ and hope you're not going to pull a fast one on me. But just remember buddy, if I can break this curse, what is to stop me from reapplying it? Or making it worse? Or giving you something else? I know a good one to make you vomit _slugs_, or have an angry bat claw its way out of your nostrils,” he added with an unpleasant twist of his lips.

They ducked down behind some rocks out of sight of both the road and the outpost and Harry carefully tipped the bowl and its passenger out onto the dirt.

“Okay, I've never done this without a wand so, bear with me...” he requested, settling back on his heels and reaching out with one hand and calling up his magic.

The frog croaked in alarm as Harry's hand started glowing.

“Yeah, now you know why I don't want word getting out. It's kind of illegal back home to reveal your magic so keep your mouth shut otherwise my ass gets thrown in a very nasty prison full of daemons,” he warned even as he chewed his lower lip and tried to figure out how to realign his magical core to transfiguration without a wand to help him channel the spell matrix.

The frog croaked in pain and Harry immediately dropped the magic.

“Shit, sorry, you okay?” he asked, hand hovering but not touching. The frog croaked once. And Harry sat back with an unhappy twist to his lips. “That caused pain, yeah?” Another single croak. He dragged a hand through his hair, “Okay, that means I didn't convert the spell properly. Fuck, I knew I should have listened to Professor McGonagall properly.” Admittedly he had _other_ things to worry about that year, what with the Second Task looming at the time, the Yule Ball sneaking up on him, finally having Ron as a friend again.

He sighed and huffed a laugh, “Looks like we're fixing this the old fashioned way. Pucker up buddy.”

The frog croaked in alarm and Harry laughed.

“A kiss is typically the only other way to break this thing without a long convoluted drawn out ritual I don't know. And since everyone tends to believe that you'd have to love someone an awful lot to kiss them while they're small and slimy, they've just come to conclude that True Love's Kiss is the only way to break it.” Harry shrugged smirking a little, “Frog slime is relatively tame compared to some of the stuff I've handled in Potions and Care of Magical Creatures. Just don't get any ideas. I'm just trying to get you human again, not interested in dating what so ever,” he declared, scooping the frog up. “One and done, okay? Don't make it weird now.”

The frog croaked, and put a hand on its face in a decidedly human fashion, making Harry laugh again.

Then, without waiting, Harry leaned forward and pressed a kiss against it, and felt the thin-sheet of magic shatter.

It was a very bad curse, definitely improperly applied.

Harry yelped as the frog exploded into smoke, and he was almost knocked off his feet by its rapidly expanding form, a hand latched onto his wrist, stopping him from falling into the bushes behind them and getting skewered by twigs.

“You have _magic?!_”

He looked up into the disbelieving face of Ass Face, and felt all the blood drain from his face.

“YOU!”

“YOU HAVE M-_magic?_” Ass Face hissed, tugging Harry back to his feet and grabbing his other arm.

“I am never helping anyone ever fucking again,” Harry moaned in despair.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ahaha, neither Rei nor I could think of a good way to work in this so I decided to throw it in here. And yes, it is before they become friendly, as evidenced by the 'Ass Face' moniker. Originally there was going to be a lot more kiss and butt-grab involved (because Cor would be sitting on Harry's hand when he got big and Harry's hand didn't move due to magic shenaniganary) but meh. This is funnier.


	13. Behind These Broken Teeth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **WARNINGS:** _strongly_ implied mental/emotional abuse in a marriage context, one massacre, Drautos/Harry (briefly).
> 
> What if Harry never met the Retinue, and someone else at his lowest point?

Monica pulled a face as she let herself into his office, Cor frowned a little at her. She was one of the newer recruits but had never been particularly shy about approaching him, it was one of the many reasons why he had her transferred to his personal command from the lower ranks of the Crownsguard. He needed men and women he could trust to get the job done, but not be taken in by things like rank and title.

“There's is a Harry Drautos to see you. He says its urgent,” she informed him quietly, a look of _worry_ on her face. That alone made him put down his pen and immediately begin clearing his desk of any restricted material.

“Put these in the safe, second shelf,” he requested, handing her the box file he had just swept several dossiers into. She collected it and headed for the two large combination lock cabinets in the back of his office as he removed the other files and papers into his locking desk draws. All the while his mind whirled.

Drautos. That was the family name of the Kingsglaive commander, Titus. He had been a loyal Glaive for the last five years, shooting up the ranks like a meteor, and was considered a rising star amidst the populace and military for his swift and decisive tactics and stern command. Cor had not heard anything about him having family, but his file did list a husband. Cor's age as a matter of fact. Stay at home, though if he _recalled_ the man in question was also listed as a consultant for the Kingsglaive having been a highly ranked member of the Meldacio Hunter Association before he moved into Insomnia. He was the one they called in when Niflheim produced a daemon or a fiend no one knew how to deal with yet.

Why on Eos was he trying to speak to _Cor_ instead of his husband?

If indeed this was Titus' husband.

Once he was sure his desk had been cleared and the cabinets were locked up and combinations scrambled again he sent Monica to bring him in.

The man that walked in was... absolutely nothing like what he pictured.

He was tiny. He honestly looked like Titus would snap him by accident comparing the two. He also looked _unhealthily thin_. Barely 5'5” in height, his hair was cropped short, his cheekbones were sharp enough to cut, and a scar slashed down his forehead and his cheek in a twisted '14'. His clothing was confusingly poor quality and over-large, highlighting how painfully thin he was.

But cut-glass green eyes burned behind his glasses, and his face was grim as he came to a stop in front of the desk as Cor stood.

“Mister Drau-”

“Harry Potter, if you please,” he interrupted strongly, a sharp Tenebrae accent clinging like frost to his voice. “I wish I could say it was a pleasure Marshal Leonis, but we are both going to have a bad day,” he announced.

Cor found himself leaning back a little in surprise by the intensity of the tiny man. Though, he supposed he shouldn't have been surprised. Titus took a great deal to impress, and if he liked this man enough to marry him then he must have been something special.

He nodded shortly, “Very well. Take a seat. How can the Crownsguard help you, Mister Potter?” he asked, retaking his own seat behind his desk.

He watched as the green eyed man tightened his grip on the large shoulder bag, pale lips compressing before he took a breath and opened said bag and withdrew three files and held them out, looking Cor in the eye.

“Titus and half of the Kingsglaive are planning to murder the King.”

It felt like someone had filled his veins with ice.

He took the files, and messaged Monica to cancel all of his appointments for the rest of the day and delete all surveillance footage of Drautos coming into the building and tell _no one_.

“Keep talking,” the Marshal commanded, watching as the green eyed man set his bag down, and saw clothing and other personal items through the opening and realised – he had no intention of ever going back to his husband.

* * *

They took Potter into protective custody and he accepted with mute resignation, silently peering around Cor's guestroom with alarmingly dull eyes as he set his bag down and sat on the bed. He didn't ask what happened next, didn't ask what was going to happen to him, he just looked up at him with those dull eyes – eyes that made something clench unhappily in the pit of his stomach when he had seen them so full of fire earlier in the day.

“His Royal Majesty and Lord Amacitia will want to speak to you tomorrow,” he explained, and saw him nod, and look down at his clasped hands. It seemed like a bad idea to ask but... “Second thoughts?”

The fire came back.

“**No.**”

He raised an eyebrow, “It would be understandable. You have been married for ten years. And the punishment if he is found guilty of treason is execution,” he pointed out reasonably, even as he pressed the tips of his fingers against the armiger in case of attack. Many whistleblowers experienced second thoughts, especially when it came to such situations.

Potter shook his head and then pushed to his feet abruptly to walk away to look out of the window. “His hurt feelings do not outweigh the lives of millions. _My_ hurt feelings do not outweigh the lives of millions. He found me when I was at my _lowest_. He sank his claws in and ripped me open and made a home for himself. Whether he thought he could use me or what, I don't know, and I don't care. _I_ don't matter. The people of Insomnia are guilty of only being _born_. And he believes that because they were safe while his home burned that they are guiltier than those who set the flame. His anger does not _trump_ their _lives_.” He whipped around to glare at him, “I am not having second thoughts. If I thought I could get every single one of them then you'd _already_ have the entire lot of them trussed up like fucking turkeys on the Citadel floor. But despite years, I know I don't have them all. But I have enough, enough to be believed.

“Enough to buy my freedom,” he swore, glaring at him.

Cor stared at him, “Freedom?” he echoed calmly.

His face twisted bitterly, “I didn't come to Insomnia _willingly_,” he spat, and turned away once more. “I've spent my whole life in a cage, being a hunter was the first taste of freedom I'd ever had. Why would I give it up just to walk into another cage?” he asked slowly, his voice dropping down into an exhausted whisper as he stared up at the shimmering dome that protected them.

He stepped closer, making sure that he could hear his footsteps on the carpet as he came to stand beside him, “Protection. Security. Opportunity.”

He didn't look at him. “All of which I had _out there_. Besithia might have been a pain in the ass with his capture teams but they were nothing I couldn't handle.”

Besithia?

He must have said that out loud because Potter looked up at him, dull eyed, but with a shadow of a sardonic smirk on his face, “I can translate Solheim text,” he admitted before looking back out of the window, “And I was a specialist in daemon extermination travelling with the Lady Auburnbrie. He was quite determined to take me into custody for a long time.” He turned back to look out of the window.

Well.

That was something he was going to have to mention to Regis and Clarus. And if Titus was a traitor working with Niflheim... why hadn't he handed the hunter off to his superiors? Unless there _was_ some manner of feelings between them? Ten years was a long time to be married to someone.

He was almost at the door when Potter spoke, “Marshal. He'll fight. He'll fight with everything he has. If you get the shot, don't hesitate. Kill him quickly.” He turned to look at him, taking in the glints of silver in his dark hair, how thin his neck and wrists were, the shadows and lines around his eyes, and how hard they were in his face.

“...Understood.”

And if later he heard muffled sobbing from his guest room, he rolled over and did the man the courtesy of pretending not to hear anything.

* * *

“Numbers three, five, six, seven, and ten,” Potter identified the lined up Kingsglaive flatly from behind the two way mirror in darkness. Cor glanced at him even as Monica made a note and contacted the agents in the room to remove those involved. They had been doing this for several days, and the only time he had seen the man falter was when young Nyx Ulric objected in complete confusion that there was no way there were traitors in the Glaives. The heartbreak when he realised that almost half of his comrades were just that was.... hard to stomach.

He didn't even falter during the interrogation with Drautos himself.

As soon as the entirety of the Kingsglaive were assembled for inspection, which meant dress uniforms and unarmed, Regis took his magic back, and cut off their access to their own armiger and magic. And the Crownsguard descended, arresting _all_ of them.

Drautos objected to all evidence and charges brought before him until Cor heard a little static feedback and then Potter's quiet voice in his wire, passing him information that he quoted back at the man, and saw his expression go slack in horror and then screw up in pain and betrayal and rage. The death threat he hissed between his clenched teeth was almost to be expected at that point, the soft huff in his ear was less so.

'_Please remind him that he's tried before, and failed. Better bring your A game this time honey. I will._'

Just what the fuck kind of destructive relationship did those two have?

Over the next few days of the man living with him, Cor was beginning to get a better idea of it. And he didn't like it. Potter was like a _ghost_. He prowled around the flat, too quietly for even _Cor_ to hear him ninety percent of the time, he stayed in his room, occasionally went to the bathroom, but other than that he stayed in his designated place and did not leave. He ate what he was given, and made no requests or attempts to intrude on Cor's space or time. He jumped near-enough out of his skin the one time Cor accidentally dropped something and paled three shades before he took a very deep _steady_ breath and went to fetch the dustpan and brush. That single reaction painted everything in far clearer shades than the last week of living with the man and Cor felt his blood quietly simmer.

Clarus sighed in frustration, “Cor, we can't just let him leave the city,” he repeated. They were in the private chambers going through what they knew of the investigation for the n'th time. “He is a valuable witness, he knows more of about the Glaives function than anyone who _isn't_ in chains, and you've just told us that he is not only a Solheim expert but Niflheim were _actively_ attempting to abduct him.”

“We can't keep him here,” he pointed out flatly, tapping a finger on the desk, “He has committed no crimes, he didn't even enter the city willingly – he was unconscious for the entirety of his processing. Drautos got his papers rushed through on medical exemption _because_ of that. At the moment, any refusal to allow him to leave would be keeping him prisoner without legal right to do so.”

Regis sighed, looking every inch his age and then some, “Under other circumstances I would agree with you Cor. However right now, we cannot spare him. Clarus is correct. Mister Potter knows more of the Kingsglaive processes than those who remain.” He eyed his young bodyguard and rubbed his chin, “You know the young man better than us. Would he accept position as a Kingsglaive?”

Cor was too disciplined these days to jerk in surprise, but it was a near thing.

Regis could always tell when he was surprised and offered him the faintest almost smile, “Why would I trust him?” he asked, echoing the very question that was likely reflected in his eyes, “Because you do. Because despite everything, he placed the lives of the people of Insomnia above everything. Because Lady Auburnbrie has written to me of him before now. Would he accept position as a Kingsglaive?”

He thought about it.

“Not willingly. He wants to leave. He wanted to protect the people, but he resents the cage that Insomnia is to him,” he explained flatly.

Clarus leaned back in his seat and rubbed his eyes, “When the war with Niflheim is over then the Wall will be dropped and he will be free to do and do as he pleases.”

They all exchanged dismal looks at the likelihood of that.

* * *

Green eyes narrowed on him, “The King wants _me_ to be a Glaive?” he demanded sceptically, something hard in his tone. “I want to _leave_ Insomnia. I was married to a Traitor. The only reason I was brought _into Insomnia_ was to be party to destroying it!” he snarled, voice rising like a trapped animal.

Cor kept his face impassive and his body language still and unthreatening.

“And instead you placed the lives of the people ahead of everything you knew. Your husband. Your entire support network. With the expectation that you would be swept under the rug along with them,” he concluded and was gratified to see that his shot in the dark had been accurate by the way his mouth snapped shut and he stiffened. So. Drautos really had managed to get through to him eventually, at least in some way. Potter might not have fallen for the entirety of his anti-Insomnia rhetoric, but some of it had seeped through. Enough so that he had expected to be arrested along with his husband and the rest of the traitor-Glaives.

“...Nothing has ever gone well for me. Even good things have been traps. Can you blame me for expecting the worst?” he asked quietly, and Cor couldn't help but close his eyes a little at the exhaustion, at the _hurt_, that practically dripped off his voice.

“No. But the offer is genuine. You know more of how the Glaives operate than anyone else currently not awaiting trial. You value the lives of others further than your husband. And your file already lists you as their consultant for daemons and fiends. As it stands, you are the most senior member of the Glaives remaining already. The question is, are you willing?” he asked flatly, and then took a step back before, “Either way, until the war with Niflheim is over, we cannot permit you to leave Insomnia given the knowledge you possess. And until the war is over, the Wall will remain.”

Potter grit his teeth only to pause and straighten, “Wait,” he said, looking over at him, “You said that – the Wall will remain until the War ends.” He nodded and watched with mild confusion as his eyes got brighter, “So. The war ends and I go free? Yes? I have the King's word on that?” he demanded.

Cor nodded. “Yes. And Lord Amacitia. As well as my own.”

Potter nodded slowly, “Alright. I'll do it. I'll take command of the Glaives. But Marshal, we do it _my_ way. Lucis has been losing this war for far too long, your tactics _aren't working_. And I don't intend to die behind these walls.”

Cor swallowed against his suddenly dry throat as he stared into those eyes, “Understood.”

Something special indeed.

* * *

Potter took control of the Kingsglaive with a ruthless efficiency that was actually startling.

He also put on weight, Cor realised, a lot of weight when he saw the man for the first time during a briefing three months after Drautos was unceremoniously executed for treason. Injected and cremated, his ashes scattered in one of the free-flowing rivers as was per tradition.

Potter was flanked by a pair of Glaives, Ostium and Atillas, the respective heads of his frontline and magic divisions, unlike Drautos he wore the same black and silver uniform as his colleagues, his only modification being the same red shroud that Atillas wore that announced he was a magic specialist. Cor frowned to see it. Earlier that day even Regis had made a passing mention of still having not actually _met_ the hunter, so how was it that he was a magical specialist without ever having sworn the oaths?

“Captain Potter,” he greeted as he stepped into the meeting room.

Green eyes, bright and intense flicked up to him and he nodded before speaking one last time with his seconds, handing them both something, and saluting them. The two returned the gesture and quickly vacated the room with suspicious frowns in his direction. That was... unexpected. He hadn't thought Potter would deal with the resentment of the remaining Glaives so quickly, but three months down the line and they were _protective_ of him?

He then glanced to his contemporary and took in the increased bulk of him, he was still small, but now there was muscle to him, his face had filled out, his hair was growing, and he'd lost the glasses.

“According to War Council Amacitia I need your escort if I am to leave Insomnia,” the Captain stated flatly, making Cor pause for all of a heartbeat. Clarus had _not_ cleared that with him.

He didn't say anything, and let the silence speak for itself.

Potter huffed and glared at him, “I need to see a certain blacksmith in Lestallum. Drautos handed over my weapons to Niflheim for their weapons development, I need replacements. And Insomnia's weapons development is _atrocious_,” he spat, bristling like a bandersnatch with an itch. Cor arched an eyebrow, amused despite himself. Potter caught his facial expression and scowled at him, “Don't give me that look. You lot _over_-specialised with magic, your answer to everything is _sword_ and that's fine for ground combat but what about mid-air? I want my anti-tank rifle back, jackass.”

_Anti-tank rifle?_

“How the fuck do you think I took down Rank 10 hunts on my own, chucklefuck?” the Captain cursed, throwing his hands up in exasperated aggravation. “Magic resistant hide also happens to be pretty _sword_ resistant too!”

“So you want to make a shopping trip to Lestallum?” Cor concluded.

Potter scoffed, “No, I want to destroy Aracheole Stronghold down to the foundations and make a pit-stop on the way back before I take out Formouth Garrison and the base at Crestholm.”

Cor blinked at him, “That's..... ambitious.”

Potter shot him a scathing look. “Surprise attacks are not ambitious if they're done right. We have teleporting magic users. Why the fuck haven't we sent them in with a metric fuckton of explosives to make sure every airship Niflheim are stupid enough to bring to this country can never fly again?” he asked pointedly. Which was actually a very good question now that Cor gave it some thought.

His silence spoke for itself and the new Glaive Captain gave him THE most unimpressed look he had ever received since he was in Basic training, and he wasn't sure how he felt about it. Just that the little voice in the back of his head that sounded an awful lot like himself at fifteen bristled like he had just been issued a challenge, igniting a low burn in his blood.

“Get over here and make yourself useful, Leonis,” Potter grunted and spread a map across the table, “You know more about the current troop movements of Niflheim, both official and unofficial, no, don't even try to lie. You've been outside the wall, if you _don't_ have some kind of unofficial information network I'm going to be very disappointed in you.” Cor closed his mouth because he _did_, but he wasn't going to admit to it what so ever. Clarus got pissy when Cor got better information from his gossip network of old housewives, ex-lovers, and tipsters than his carefully placed and groomed spy network. “I need a debrief.”

He firmly shoved aside the inappropriate thought of a better kind of debrief he could give him as he turned his attention to the map.

* * *

Cor hadn't run a joint op with the Glaives in a long time.

Their activities under Potter were _considerably_ different enough that it may as well have been the first time. They handled everything quickly, smoothly, and efficiently. Potter timed their expedition to coincide with the Assassin's Festival in Lestallum, thus giving the Glaives a very good coverstory to get through the various blockades without incident. With all of them out of uniform dressed in civvies, they looked like regular citizens. Half of their forces would he going by ship, taking the long way around to Caem and Malmalam and heading up to Lestallum that way, the rest would be hiking in through Leide and Galdin Quay up past Crestholm.

It was startling how Potter coordinated all of it with the assistance of Ostium, the two got the much diminished and much more organised forces of the Glaives to work and the smaller groups allowed them to move without raising the Empire's attention as even _they_ knew of the festival and the increased civilian traffic was to be expected. Clever.

For them though, they had to sneak because their faces were too well known to get through the various blockades.

He also got to see Potter in action against the various fiends they came across.

Or rather, not see him in action.

He was a gunner. And a _damn_ good one.

Cor hadn't even had a chance to summon Kotetsu before the trio of voreteeth that attempted to make a grab for them were shot through the eye and dropped like so much trash. Ostium, Ulric, and Atillas didn't even bother trying to draw weapons.

Ulric even had the balls to slap him on the back as they passed and say, “You'll get used to it, sir. Captain likes to get his hands dirty,” he declared with a grin that was part respect and part affection as he looked at his tiny superior officer as he stowed his gun away and continued walking, utterly unbothered by the scorching Leiden heat in his old hunting leathers. Which _still_ hung off his too thin frame despite the considerable muscle and weight he had managed to put on since Drautos was taken out of his life. Did that bastard keep him half-starved to keep him docile?

They snuck into Duscae via the pipelines and scaled the rocky cliffs that backed and covered Fociaugh Hollow.

Atillas frowned, “Do you hear that?” she asked warily.

Potter glanced over at her, “Ignore it for now. The Oracle sealed Fociaugh Hollow years ago after the incident at Saxholm. There's a particularly nasty demon locked away in there. If we get time later before the operation at Formouth we'll pop the cork and deal with it but it's contained for now. We can't afford to be late.”

Atillas saluted, “Sir, yes sir,” she agreed.

Once in Duscae proper, Potter took them... to a _chocobo ranch?_

Okay, apparently he was friendly with the owner who let them rent enough birds to get to Lestallum for the festival. So they ended up cutting across the majority of the countryside, skirting the Disc of Cauthess, and hiding in the forest because the road up to Lestallum had a blockade.

Potter released the birds, grabbed Cor's arm, and everything went sideways like a warp but – they burst out onto one of the roofs of Lestallum and Cor crumpled to his knees gasping for air and shuddering at the feeling of magic crawling across his skin even as he heard Potter warp away. A second later, Atillas was next to him wheezing, closely followed by Ulric and Ostium.

“Looks like we're ahead of the others,” Potter announced once they'd gotten hold of themselves. “Get yourselves some costumes, enjoy the food, don't drink, it's almost all alcohol and I want you sober for the op. I'm going to see a crazy bastard about a cannon.”

Crazy bastard was right, Cor remembered this guy, he had not improved what so ever in the last twenty years.

Either way, he told Potter to come back the next day and they left to go and stuff their faces and get dressed up, something that Potter actually insisted on, telling them to pass it on to every other member of the operation. It was _essential_ they dress up, and keep their faces hidden. They were assassins afterall.

* * *

They warp jumped across Taelpar Crag. _Somehow they all warp-jumped across Taelpar Crag_.

None of them should have had the magic for that.

And then he realised, Potter had done it three times, four now. And he wasn't even _winded_.

He pushed the thought aside and they converged upon the base.

It – he had no idea how he was supposed to explain this in his report. It was after dark, they warped onto the base walls, Glaives flashed silently onto all of the look outs, destroying and stabbing and snapping necks. More flashed to the top of various airships and began to stick explosives into the engine ports before warping on top of the barracks and doing the same thing but onto the roofs and the exits. And then they cleared the base, converging on the exits and set the whole lot off.

What followed was outright slaughter.

Every MT, every officer, every soldier, every single one of them that fled the fire and the explosions was jumped on from above and quickly and painlessly killed.

It was then he realised the magic division hadn't left the walls, they were still in position surrounding the base, and all of them had their hands out, manipulating the fires they had set. Fire going white-hot, concrete scorching, metal _melting_.

And then they warped away, and the fire went out, leaving nothing but molten metal, dead bodies, smouldering ash, and eerie silence.

They went back to Lestallum.

“You've all used a lot of magic, eat, sleep, unwind a bit. We'll be moving out first thing tomorrow when the Imperials come to investigate why their base has gone dark. We hit Formouth tomorrow night. Remember to sleep before we do so,” Potter commanded to various tired agreements as they all headed off to stuff their faces and sleep.

* * *

The crazy blacksmith found them in the early hours and shoved a _**cannon**_ into Potter's arms.

“A _Legend_ is _born!_” the old man exclaimed rapturously, raising his arms skyward like some ancient shaman.

Potter ignored him completely, checking the weapon over with swift and certain actions, almost entirely familiar with it already, or not? He looked childishly gleeful and years younger as he checked the various magazines, pulled the bolt, checked the sights, the weight, and examined the ammunition.

“The Ruinous Destroyer, a far greater work of art than the Iron Assault cannon you wielded in your youth. I warn you though, the force of its recoil is considerably greater than that of its siblings,” the old man warned, “You asked for something to destroy countries, and I have provided.”

Potter's grin was all teeth and Cor looked away.

“Hell yeah it is. Thanks Rudolph.”

“Rudolph? So I was close.”

“Don't tell me you forgot your name again?” Potter demanded in exasperation, “Geez, you're a mess, man.”

The blacksmith sniffed, “What need do I have for names when I'm creating Legends?” he demanded before waving them off, “Go now, carve your way into history with that weapon.”

He saluted with a grin, “Oh I will,” he promised with a purr and caress to the barrel of that gun that made Cor very uncomfortable as he sighed softly.

* * *

They reached Formouth ahead of everyone else, again, and Potter sat down to make ammo while Ulric and Ostium badgered Cor for war stories, and Atillas took a nap. When Potter ran out of ingredients for ammo he curled up to sleep as well and Cor finally had his opportunity to question the Glaives about their new Captain.

“Oh yeah, he's a hardass, no mistake. Cute ass too but you didn't hear it from me,” Ulric declared cheerfully, “When he first joined us, he apologised for all the unrest but said we had a rare opportunity now, to prove every son of a bitch in Insomnia wrong about us by winning the war. And y'know, no one really thought much of him at first. I mean, he was barely taller than Crowe and weighed like half as much as she did. But then some of the stuff he did with _magic_, y'know, we all got to thinking that yeah, maybe we had a chance. Then of course he started training with us and, lemme tell ya, nothing tells you to actually focus like getting your ass kicked by a famine victim half your height when he uses your own weight against you. Then he just straight up started kicking our asses.” Ulric shrugged, “He's good people.”

Ostium was a little more verbose but just as pleased with his new captain, explaining how how the divisions were now managed, and the combination drills they now ran, the magic research and the technique development was now a large part of what they did in their downtime instead of just endless warp practice. Which, y'know, was fine and all. But he made it actually fun by turning it into an assault course where you had to think and use your magic in new and interesting ways. And sometimes, you weren't allowed to use it at all.

Atillas just grunted and said he was leagues better that Drautos.

* * *

Formouth fell just as quickly as Aracheole, and the Glaives vanished into the darkness, booking it to Crestholm where they repeated their performance and erased the blockades currently cutting Insomnia off from Leide.

It was as they were signing back into Insomnia that Potter looked over at him, “So. Do I pass the test? Am I a big boy that can run around without having his hand held, or do you need to hold the leash a while longer?” he asked flatly, and they were all rewarded with the sound of Ulric choking back something entirely inappropriate. Or Atillas trying to smother him. Neither of them turned to look. (It was actually Ostium who was smothering Ulric while Atillas looked on in amusement.)

Cor shrugged, “That's for Lord Amacitia to decide,” he stated and was rewarded with a roll of eyes. “But I will pass on my recommendation. Pet play isn't really my thing.”

Potter outright laughed to the tune of both Ostium _and_ Ulric wheezing.

* * *

Regis stared at him from his throne, face carved as if from stone, and it was only decades of close friendship that let him see the lines of disbelief and shock on his face at Cor's report.

Three destroyed bases, three destroyed blockades, all because Potter wanted a decent gun.

The Empire were flipping their collective shit over the losses, scrambling to find out what the hell had just happened now that they had lost their spies within the Lucian military (and after discovering the traitor-glaives, every other department in close relation to the Crown had _cleaned house_).

“I have not received Captain Potter's oath,” Regis announced with forced neutrality.

And it was like all the air was sucked out of the room immediately.

There were only three ways to obtain magic.

A Blessing from an Astral, all of which were slumbering except for Bahamut.

To swear an Oath to the King of Lucis. Cor imagined it was possible that the Oracle could take such oaths and share her magic but she had never done so in the two-thousand years of her own service.

Or to be born to one of the Royal Lines.

Things just got a lot more complicated.

* * *

Blood test matched.

Potter was a _Lucis Caelum_.

“And?” Potter asked as he collected several papers from his desk and stowed them into various files.

“This makes you part of the Royal Family,” Cor pointed out, ignoring the look on Clarus' face.

“Family is more than blood. Something I would have thought you three knew personally,” the Captain stated without looking away from the e-mail he was writing, fingers flying swiftly over the keyboard before he abandoned it to investigate a ring binder beside him. “Forgive me for being blunt but is there a point to this?”

“Did you know?” Clarus interjected.

“No,” Potter said, taking a pen and ticking something off after consulting another e-mail. He then closed the folder and looked up at them, “I don't want to be recognised. I want to _leave_. I'm not going to stay here and play happy families for the newspapers. Your Royal Majesty seems like a decent enough guy, but I am not pandering to _anyone_.” And there was the teeth and the fire. “_Never – again_.”

Clarus nodded slowly, “A private meeting then, perhaps. We will keep you from the public eye if that is your desire. No need for your existence to be known to anyone not already in the know. However, Regis would like to know you, and for you to know his son. He has lost many family in the last few years.”

His gaze softened.

“I will think about it. Now get out, I have a pile of paperwork up to _your_ tits, Lord Amacitia, and standing around distracting me only lets it grow larger.”

* * *

Regis didn't get his meeting, Potter took a contingent of Kingsglaive out short notice, and the next thing they knew was that the blockades in southern Leide went up in flames, closely followed by _every_ single other Niflheim base in Lucis.

All of them.

Ravatogh became a battlefield as Niflheim sent more forces to try and break through into Lucis proper but the Kingsglaive held. Their numbers were half of what they were at their height, and Cor had more than a few applications and transfer requests from various Crownsguard and citizens – and then it stopped.

Niflheim stopped sending forces at Lucis.

And that was when Cor received the reports from Ostium – _not_ Potter.

Potter who hadn't even _been_ at Ravatogh.

Then their spy network in Niflheim _lit up_.

Gralea labs were on fire, Besithia was dead, MTs were powered by daemon miasma, they were all _clones_ of Besithia, he had attempted to turn himself into some Magitek abomination by liquefying the citizens of Niflheim into daemon miasma to power it. It lay in pieces in the Ghorovos Rift, frozen and dead in the shadow of Shiva's corpse.

A corpse that was now _missing_.

Regis was roaring behind closed doors, Clarus was scrambling to get eyes on the situation, the Crystal was pulsating in its chamber and none of them could make out why.

Reports were still rolling in.

_Ifrit_ was seen in Zegnautus, half the Niflheim capitol was on fire, the other half was overrun with daemons.

_Kingsglaive_ were evacuating citizens and protecting them with the assistance of _mercenaries and Hunters_ from Meldacio.

Every MT had suddenly powered down.

And then – there was a sound like a gong from the throne room, and the Crystal exploded.

Regis yelled as magic washed throughout the city and the _Wall fell_, the _Old Wall stood up_, and Ring of the Lucii _shattered on his finger_.

The world was bathed in light and it was like Regis had – had regained twenty years of his life, his silvering hair now handsome and dark, only shot through with silver streaks instead of coloured silver and white with stress and drain and pain. He staggered to his feet and ran for the window, heedless of leaving his _cane behind_, unbothered, his leg bearing his weight with ease as he looked out across his city and the thirteen statues of his ancestors now stood with their weapons raised, their stone shells shattered around them revealing the gleaming metal of their true armour beneath, and the empty sky above.

“The Wall has fallen,” he croaked, and they ran to the Crystal room to find it in shards across the floor and Carbuncle sat in the centre of the destruction, scratching his ear and looking cute.

Their phones vibrated and when they looked, Regis sobbed.

[_The Prophesy has been fulfilled by another. The Darkness has been defeated and the Accursed cleansed of evil. The Light has returned to Eos. Let there now be peace._]

Three days later, Potter, Ulric, and Atillas staggered up the steps of the Citadel, filthy, scorched, arm in arm with a silver haired woman with a wicked grin, bright green eyes, and a red headed man who looked like he wasn't sure what was going on under Potter's arm.

Regis stared at the ragged group and Potter grinned at him, full of teeth and eyes of fire, “Remember that deal we made about how I could leave Insomnia if I ended the war?” he asked.

* * *

Noctis peered around the small outpost suspiciously, casting a glance back at Ignis, “Yo, Specs.... you sure this is the place?” he asked doubtfully.

“Quite sure,” his Retainer informed him. “I made sure to get the address from your father personally. Unless the Marshal has taken up practical _jokes_ along with Hunting, then I believe we can be reasonably certain they will be around here somewhere.”

Noctis hummed doubtfully as he glanced around the small village of Malmalam.

He still found it hard to believe. Here he was, twenty years old, travelling to each of his ancestors tombs with his best friends, and not only were the towns and villages they passed full of people, but they were happy. The forts and strongholds of Niflheim had been knocked down and built over and turned into homes and towns and trading outposts. His dad had regained the years of life he had poured into the Crystal to uphold the Wall, Insomnia was bright and hot and lively, and the rest of Lucis followed suit.

The war was over.

He got to meet Uncle Cid, and Uncle Weskham, the two coming from their homes to visit his dad in the aftermath of the conflict and Noctis remembered them staying for ages, remembered Cid bringing his granddaughter Cindy who was very pretty. And no matter how Gladio tried to impress her, more interested in Lieutenant Atillas than his Shield.

Uncle Cor though.... He left Insomnia. Uncle Clarus said it was to hunt down any troublemaking remnants of the Empire that might seek to destabilise the new fragile peace.

Dad said it was to chase the guy responsible for bringing said peace. His Uncle, Harry, whom he had never met.

Who he really wanted to.

Lunafreya and Carbuncle had explained his fate, his role as the Chosen King, and how his Uncle had assumed that responsibility without even knowing the prophesy, without knowing his fate, or receiving any of the blessings that he should have. He rolled up his sleeves, and used his wit and his magic and his weapons, and he did that which no one else had been able to do for two thousand years.

He beat back the darkness, he saved Uncle Ardyn and gave him the chance to be family, be loved. And then he just walked away.

His Dad seemed absolutely certain that if they found Uncle Cor, they were likely to find Uncle Harry too.

Noctis wasn't so sure, Ignis believed his father implicitly, Gladio was hoping they stumbled on some juicy gossip, Prompto thought it was all very romantic, and Iris was determined to get lessons on how to be an absolutely kick ass and terrifying warrior out of one of them, preferably both.

“Noctis.”

Now that was a familiar voice.

He turned, spotting Uncle Cor coming down the path. The man smiled at him, the easiest and happiest that Noctis had seen him in years and it made something catch in the back of his throat because really, he didn't think he had seen _any_ of his family smile like that since he was _five_. Cor was sun-beaten, sleeves rolled up, sword in hand, wearing a dirty t-shirt, a flannel shirt tied around his waist, jeans, and boots. It was the most colour Noctis had ever seen him wear in his entire life and it _suited him_.

“Uncle Cor,” he greeted, voice cracking a little bit.

He huffed a quiet laugh and strode over, dragging him into a hug, “Long time no see, Starshine,” he said warmly, that old childhood nickname that he wondered if he was ever going to lose before deciding he didn't want to as he wound both arms around him and squeezed tightly. “Look at you, all grown up.”

Gladio huffed a laugh, “Hark whose talking. You got fat,” he observed and, Noctis was keeping his mouth damn shut because he was plastered against Cor's front and yes, there was a bit of a gut but it was still like hugging a adamantium pillar – just because someone wrapped a blanket around it didn't mean it wasn't still an adamantium pillar.

“Not fighting a war and three decent meals a day will do that to a guy. You need to eat more, Gladio, and not cup noodles,” the former Marshal scolded lightly, making absolutely no move to let Noctis go until he wanted to. And Noct didn't want to. He could distantly hear Prompto cooing and snapping pictures but he didn't care. He'd _missed_ Uncle Cor.

Ignis was saying something about the tombs, because he was all business all the time.

“There's one at the back of the Thicket, I'll take you there later. First though – ”

“Comin' through!” a voice shouted, accompanied by the scree of a chocobo. Noctis felt Cor's arm around his back tighten before he was physically picked up, the former Marshal hopping backwards to avoid getting mowed down by the chocobo rider and bird.

Cor chuckled, “First, let me introduce you to your other Uncle, Noctis. Meet Harry.”

Prompto squeaked in excitement as the chocobo rider swung off his bright yellow mount and pulled a set of goggles up, revealing bright green eyes.

“I knew it! You _did elope!_” Gladio exclaimed, pointing.

And then Noctis saw it, a blue effigy of Shiva around the man's throat.

Harry laughed, “Eloped? Nah. I ran off before His Royal Majesty could saddle me with a medal. Cor tracked me down because he wanted a fight.” His grin became wicked and toothy, “Winner take all.”

All eyes turned to Cor who shrugged and didn't look particularly upset, “I lost.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> GUYS
> 
> GUYS
> 
> YOU DON'T EVEN KNOW
> 
> THIS FIC TOOK ME FUCKING HOSTAGE AND REFUSED TO LET ME STOP WRITING!! 
> 
> IT'S BEEN FIVE HOURS SINCE I STARTED WRITING GUYS. IT DIDN'T LET ME STOP!! AND WENT COMPLETELY SIDEWAYS ON ME!! I DID NOT PLAN ON HARRY BECOMING CAPTAIN OF THE KINGSGLAIVE, I DID NOT PLAN FOR HIM TO FUCK SHIT UP SO MUCH THAT THE WAR ENDED, THAT WAS NOT IN THE PLAN!! HE WAS JUST GUNNA GO BE A FUCKING CHOCOBO HERMIT!!
> 
> **The Story of Drautos and Harry:** Okay, I didn't find a way to work this into the oneshot but here goes, basically, eight or so years after crashlanding on Eos, Harry was at his absolute LOWEST point. No one came for him, no one even _tried_ to come for him. At this point Kimya has left him because of her own injuries, he's not allowed into Meldacio, Dave is avoiding him on momma's orders, and he's never met the Retinue so he is, literally alone. And unwanted. He's at a really vulnerable and shitty point in his life. Enter Drautos. Drautos who not only likes him but _wants_ him. Drautos who has lost his home and is charming and good looking and strong. They hook up and originally it was just because Drautos was told to get him to Niflheim because he was valuable but well, he got Feelings and decided not to. They went to Insomnia instead and Niflheim attacked, Harry got injured, and they got in on his medical rush-through. Got married. Lived together. But Drautos continued to be resentful of Lucis and Insomnia and the longer he stayed there the more resentful he got until he went straight back to being a spying sack of shit. His relationship with Harry began to deteriorate and he used all of those insecurities that he learned of to peel Harry's mind open like a banana and take advantage of him. It wasn't until Harry learned of what he and Niflheim were planning to do that he began to take his own steps, like gathering all the evidence he could, digging into who every traitor Glaive was, etc, etc, and then present that information to the Crownsguard. 
> 
> There were feelings between them. But god it was a messed up cauldron of messy messy emotions, none of which were healthy.


	14. Cor's POV, Part 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **WARNINGS:** Talk of sexual assault, graphic injury

The hunter had a bad attitude. He knew that Regis was Royalty, knew that they were his Retinue, but still acted like they had something to prove _to him_. Arrogant.

Cor did not like him.

He was antagonistic, rude, and aggressive. Cute face aside, he couldn't wait for this trip to be over. The sooner they left Meldacio the sooner they could leave him behind.

Even if he had a nice behind, he noted as the teenager lead them up the steep path to the Myrlwood, sure footed in a new pair of boots. Well, he couldn't fault the guy's stamina at least as they had to come to a stop to let everyone else catch up, Cor shook his head, mildly embarrassed for them and wondering why the hell Regis and Weskham hadn't switched out their shoes for something more appropriate. Clarus stuck close to Regis, and Cid was huffing and puffing with his age by the time they caught up.

“Might want to draw weapons now,” Potter informed them even as he drew one of his handguns, Quicksilver model, designed for moving enemies and greater armour penetration, it would cause a great deal more breakage. He was surprised the young hunter had it, that was a powerful gun, the recoil alone would sprain most civilian's wrists.

They summoned their weapons – but didn't have a chance to use them.

Potter walked into the forest and headshot the first Killer Wasp they saw.

And the second. And the third. Fourth.

He didn't even miss a step as he marched through the forest, giving the downed fiends a wide berth with suspicious scowls in their direction as he continued on his way. It was – Cor swallowed. That was _some_ accuracy. One-hundred percent headshot, every time, critical blow. Some of those fiends hadn't had the chance to realise they were under attack before they were dead.

Weskham chuckled a little weakly, disturbed despite himself, even his accuracy wasn't that pin-point. “I see now why Madam Auburnbrie spoke so highly of your skill,” he admitted. Skill. Well he supposed the woman was the type of person where 'absolutely lethal' was merely 'competent'.

Potter scoffed, “Ezma? Somehow I doubt that,” he said with amusement and something that sounded a little like bitterness.

* * *

It felt like his heart was in his throat.

Potter had made the shot, nailing the _Dread King Bandersnatch_ (something he hadn't needed to inform the others of, though perhaps in hindsight he maybe should have said something to Potter who only identified it as 'something big' further into the forest) in the eyeball. It gave them the opportunity to warp in and start whaling on it, only to have it ram into the cliff the hunter and Weskham were sniping from – a cliff that gave way and sent the hunter tumbling down and onto the creature's head.

His bracers caught. The leather buckles snagging on its spiny hide.

Potter unloaded everything in his pistols into the soft point at the back of its head, beneath the crown of thorns, before drawing his dagger and going at it with gritted teeth and lethal precision. Blood slicked the fiend's back and when Clarus managed to hack its tendons the whole thing crumpled with a wail, and Potter was flung like a ragdoll – the _sound_ of his arm dislocating like a punch to the stomach, absolutely sickening.

Regis warped above him and sliced the spines he was entangled on, letting him drop into Clarus' waiting hands.

But not fast enough for Cor to miss how misshapen and _wrong_ it looked as he dangled there, ash faced, wide eyed, and blood splattered.

Clarus caught him and the hunter took a deep breath, blinking and shaking his head as he attempted to shy away from the Shield's grasp. He scowled at the hunter, he was shaking ever so slightly, grey faced, and his pupils were pin-pricks. Definitely shock.

“I heard his shoulder pop, definitely dislocated,” he reported to the Prince as he warped down beside them.

“We'll have to put it back in before administering any potions,” he agreed as he appeared, mid-sentence. It was a habit that both Weskham and King Mors had been trying to break him of, warping mid-conversation, but it didn't seem to have sunk in yet.

Potter shook his head, elbowing Clarus' hand away, “I'm fine!” he snapped, as if he weren't an inch from passing out. “Stop fussing!”

Regis frowned, “You were thrown around like a ragdoll! A little fussing is warranted, I should think!” he stressed, politely not mentioning the fact that they were surprised his arm hadn't dislocated sooner given the way the Bandersnatch had been tossing him around.

Then Potter rolled his eyes and _popped his own shoulder back in_.

* * *

Potter was tense, anxious, and grim.

Cor frowned as he watched the hunter, letting Ezma Auburnbrie's self-important prattle wash over his head as he observed the Lady Auburnbrie speak to him, her expression pained. She stepped back and Potter turned and headed for the gate where there was a group of hunters, a stocky guy with dark hair coming down to meet him, a curious grin on his face.

One that fell immediately when Potter took something that glinted out of his pocket.

He yelled hoarsely in denial, drawing attention from the other hunters, half of Meldacio practically standing still as Potter handed over a necklace – the same necklace he had pulled out of that dung pile in the Myrlwood.

“No... no, no, no, please no, it can't – she can't – no, no, nohooo...” he moaned, accepting the necklace with shaking hands as he fell to his knees and wailed, “Sa-SAHARAA!”

Head were bowed, and he saw people take their hats off as the man sobbed brokenly on his hands and knees, Potter crouching down next to him and pulling him into a hug, anchoring him as he screamed into his shoulder.

Shame churned in his gut when he recalled how he reacted to seeing the hunter up to his elbows in dung, penlight between his teeth. Stupid. Stupid. Dogtags were given to soldiers so even if their bodies couldn't be recovered then at least _something_ could be taken to their families, hunters were the same, of course he would search a _dungpile_ for – he looked away, furious with himself.

“Come,” Weskham murmured, gently propelling him into the Auburnbrie household, “Let's give them some privacy.”

* * *

“Weskham, you bastard! You ditched me in the market!” Clarus complained as he burst into their hotel room. Cor glanced up from Genji in amusement only to scowl when he saw a familiar thin figure behind the Shield looking mildly amused, and also a little disgusted.

“You managed to find your way back,” Weskham dismissed and offered a smile at the interloper, “And you've brought a guest as well, hello Harry.”

“Hi,” he greeted with a flash of a smile before spotting Regis and turning to him instead, “Regis, can I get a copy of that translation I did for you in Steyliff? Kimya isn't too sure where the other doors are and wants to check on them too,” he explained, making Cor frown as he concentrated his attention onto Genji, rather than how the sunlight streaming in through the windows caught on his hair, bringing out gold and red amidst the night-black strands.

“Oh, of course. How are you this morning?” the Prince asked brightly, summoning the needed piece of paper while Clarus whispered quietly to Weskham about needing to step up and explain some social stuff to Potter.

Social stuff?

Potter wrinkled his nose unhappily, and Cor scowled at his blade, quickly looking away. Someone with that kind of personality shouldn't look like that. “Uh, so-so. But, glasses'll be ready after lunch so there's that,” he admitted happily, obviously looking forward to being able to see properly as he copied down the information.

“So-so? What happened?” Regis asked, frowning in concern as he sat up and put his magazine down. Potter was foul-mouthed and snarky, but he wasn't one for complaining. Not really. Even they'd noticed he was more likely to lie and say he was fine rather than admit to any injury or unpleasantness. If he was outright admitting to something....

“Nothing serious, don't worry about it.”

Clarus shook his head, “Group of women nearly sexually assaulted him,” he explained and Cor stiffened. He could see how that could happen, the women of Lestallum were of a particular kind, and they liked their men on the prettier end of the spectrum. Potter looked mildly uncomfortable but mostly confused when he looked up.

“They weren't that bad. It – it was weird but they didn't _do_ anything,” he explained awkwardly. Still looking out of his depth. Great. Of course he was going to be one of those people, the ones that downplayed this kind of stuff to avoid a fuss. Cor's mother was of exactly the same kind.

Clarus gestured at the hunter and looked at Weskham pointedly, “All three of them practically had him pinned to the chain-link fence. He didn't have a damn clue what was going on, or what they were suggesting.”

“Well it isn't like that kind of thing _happens_, like _ever_, to someone like me!” the hunter squawked irritably, rolling his eyes. Cor could see it, but he also thought it was highly unlikely. Potter was under-age, but he was _jailbait_. A face like that? An _ass_ like that? Who knew what he was doing in a fight, who regularly tangled with daemons, and thought nothing of it? He was genuinely doubtful that people hadn't thought the benefits outweighed the potential backlash to tap that (he'd considered it, but then, he was fifteen too, that didn't apply to him).

“Harry,” Weskham broached, sounding hesitant before his shoulders squared, “has anyone ever sat you down and talked to you about – ”

Hilarity had him clamping a hand over his mouth as the hunter's eyes practically bugged out of his skull and he lost three shades of colour even as his cheeks turned bright red.

“We are _not_ having this conversation!” he yelped as he leapt to his feet.

“It is an important subject, Harry,” Weskham stressed with a frown, “You are a young man and – ”

“Ron's older brothers gave us the talk back when we were twelve!” the hunter blurted as he backed away towards the window, “And anything they missed, Professor McGonagall talked us through in painful horrifying detail! I do not need a recap, thank you!”

Cor bit his lip and shifted backwards on the carpet out of the way, snickering and grinning. Weskham had forced him into the same conversation before they left, there had been leaflets and pamphlets and _diagrams_ – admittedly he had also forced Regis and Clarus into the same lecture, on the off chance that several young men of varying ages out of the highly judgemental eye of the Insomnian public cut a little _too_ loose. Just so they wouldn't do anything particularly foolish. But this? This was gold. He didn't think he had ever seen someone so disgusted or horrified by the prospect of a conversation about sex before in his life.

“Apparently you do if you didn't realise that three women were trying to drag you down a dark alleyway,” Clarus pointed out in amusement.

Potter shook his head, “I have to meet Kimya for lunch!” he squeaked in mortification – and then _vaulted out of the window._

Cor burst out laughing, because honestly? He was pretty sure if Weskham hadn't locked them up on the eighth floor, Regis and Clarus would have done the same thing.

The Shield sighed in disgust, “He asked me if people practised cannibalism, Wesk. They were flirting and he thought they wanted to actually eat him.”

He wheezed.

There was naïve and then there was _that_, Shiva's tits.

* * *

Cor forgot how much Mid and Melba's reeked of dog. He wrinkled his nose a little as they walked in, listening to the chorus of animals barking their heads off in the kitchen as they entered into the cosy family room, everyone finding places to sit.

He smiled a little as he sat down and saw the way Layla, the Arum's fat ginger feline immediately made a beeline for Harry, sniffing curiously at him. Like recognising like judging by the way the usually foul-tempered cat immediately took to the hunter and practically crawled into his lap to demand attention. Usually she would outright hiss at him and flee to the top of the cabinets to avoid contact – he would take offence, but Harry was pretty much a human cat so he couldn't really.

He was pretty good with them actually, did he perhaps have a cat at home? Cor wondered as he accepted the cup of coffee he was given by Melba, it was that terrible instant coffee that he loved but Weskham thought was second only to the devil. He smiled behind his mug as Harry accepted his drink and chuckled a little at Layla's outrage when he stopped petting her. Yeah, he'd be upset if – no, don't think about it, don't be dumb, you've only just gotten him to tolerate you.

Then he saw the look of surprise on the hunter's face when he took his first mouthful. He sighed into his drink and relaxed against Kimya's legs, eyes sliding shut as he sipped his drink with relief.

What was he drinking? It definitely wasn't anything Weskham had been giving him, the man had been sneakily trying to find his favourite foods and drinks, find out what he was familiar with, but Harry's preferences and familiarity with foods was literally all over the place. Altissian sashimi and pastas, Niflheim spiced dishes, Tenebraean stews and fruits, even Lucian foods were all eaten without fuss, admittedly he disliked a lot of spicy foods, but he ate them none the less. Harry was definitely one of those people for whom food was fuel, and he wasn't about to be fussy about what he put in the tank unless it was bad for him.

* * *

“Over twenty hours,” Cor summed up grimly as they stepped out of the diner at Longwythe. That was a long time to be out under the Leiden sun, overnight, on a hunt. It was long enough to get to a haven and get back too, even on foot. Something bad must have happened, and Harry clearly thought so too if the stubborn set to his jaw was any indication.

“I've survived longer,” he stated flatly as he checked his pockets and patted himself down quickly. Cor didn't doubt it. Not only that, but the fiends and daemons that lived in the Vesper Pool were of a more vicious kidney than the ones that lived in Leide. This close to the Wall, the greater fiends were unwilling to settle near-by, unless they were truly powerful apex predators.

The two of them paused beside Clarus, who didn't even notice them, too busy trying to sweet-talk the young lady that ran the item car to pay them any mind. Cor eyed him. He _should_ tell him they were leaving, however, this was _Leide_. There was literally absolutely nothing in this dust bowl that he alone couldn't handle, day or night, and Harry was quite literally a professional hunter on _par_ with him. Together they were overkill for anything that might try to get the jump on them. All three of them going would be overkill, and Cor _really_ didn't want to deal with Clarus right now.

Harry turned away and headed out of Longwythe without comment, or trying to get the Shield's attention, Cor followed. He did not blame the hunter what so ever about not wanting to deal with him.

It was kind of strange, now that he thought about it, he had never actually seen Harry in action as a hunter. He had seen him fight daemons a plenty, fiends yes, but he had never actually seen him in the process of tracking them down, never seen him devote all of his attention wholly to a task. Previously Cor had only interacted with him while he was playing the part of escort, or protector.

But watching him straighten his back and jog easily down the dusty roads, breathing steady and his eyes sharp with concentration as they swept the landscape for signs of their missing hunter was almost mesmerising.

He lead them straight to a pool of blood and a pack of voreteeth sniffing around hopefully for scraps or corpses.

Cor summoned his blade and lunged at them, spying out of the corner of his eye Harry hanging back and launching several throwing knives out. Which – why not his guns?

When the pack were down and out, he watched as the hunter collected his blades. They were tiny things, barely the length of his finger, thin, and double-edged, he wiped them off on his leg without looking as he prowled around the clearing, eyes down, attention wholly on whatever it was he could read in the blood and scuff marks and disturbed dirt in front of them. Tracking had never been his strong point, he knew basic fieldcraft but this? This was too old for him to make heads or tails of.

“Did you not bring your weapons?” he finally asked sharply, why the hell was he running off into the wilderness without his damn weapons? Did – and he swallowed, feeling his heart give a particularly hard thump at the thought – did Harry trust him that much to protect him out here?

“It was a supply run,” Harry admitted absently as he knelt down by a particular scattering of blood, fingers hovering and tracing some unseen pattern before he was up, and moving to a disturbed section of dirt next to some dry and dying plants. “I didn't think I'd need them.”

And he'd just gone running off into Leide without hesitation or second thought, armed with only a brace of knives the length of his finger, and took out several voreteeth like it was nothing to be – fuck.

“..._how_... are you _incapable_ of believing that you're attractive?!” he spluttered in abject confusion.

He just took out several voreteeth with _letter openers! Like it was nothing!_

Harry left the bushes, following some trail only he could see, “Maybe because I'm really not? Ever thought of that?” he demanded sarcastically, clearly not paying much attention to Cor and the fact that he was literally half an inch from jumping him. For fuck's sake. How did he not get this? How was he not _seeing_ this?

“I am not _blind_, thanks,” he snapped as he jogged after the hunter, spotting the crumpling boot-prints he was following. “And I'm not – ugly people – that's not my kink! You _aren't_ ugly!” he snapped irritably, he sincerely doubted he would have gone quite so stupid or tongue tied over Harry if he didn't have those eyes, or that face. He could, absolutely, find even the most hog-ugly of people attractive, but he wouldn't _want_ them with the same brain bending hormones. He was sixteen! Harry was incredibly pretty and physically fit and able to keep up with him in a fight and take out airships with that cannon of his, fiends with flicks of his knives, and _fuck_, he had magic too!

But he didn't even look up, “I know a great many people who would disagree and say you needed glasses as well,” the hunter informed him with flat humour before pointing to the otherside of the road, “Go to that side of the road, tell me if you see bootprints,” he ordered and Cor scowled darkly at him even as he did so. Given how everyone he knew before he reached Lucis was pretty much _trash_ and likely abusive to varying degrees, or at least horrifyingly neglectful, he didn't doubt that there were people who would say such things. Especially if his culture valued larger builds and paler colouring, as was actually true to form in Niflheim and Tenebrae actually. That didn't stop him from being fucking devastating to look at.

“Well, they're _wrong_ and out of the two of us, _I'm_ not the one that needs glasses,” he snapped pointedly.

“Debatable,” he dismissed, eyes down. “You didn't even realise I was a hunter when we met.”

“You were covered in so much mud I couldn't tell,” he retorted, kneeling down next to some disturbed dirt only to shake his head, voretooth tracks, not boot. “And then I _actually_ got a look at you in Meldacio, I – you – ” There went his pride, out of the fucking window. So much for approaching this with any degree of dignity or, or, _romance_. “You were so pretty I forgot everything I was going to say and just ended up staring like a moron,” he blurted, feeling his face burning with embarrassment.

Harry looked lost, “Oh.... I thought you were trying to pick a fight....”

He huffed a little and quirked a half smile at him, as if _that_ hadn't been obvious from the get go. “I figured.” Harry went pink, looking away and rubbing the back of his neck in embarrassment himself, looking guilty. Well, it looked like he'd found the key to dealing with the hunter, he was going to have to be painfully honest, even with the really mortifying stuff. He sighed, “I just wish you'd believe me when I say you're pretty,” he complained as they continued walking.

“I am not pretty,” the hunter snapped, cheeks bright red, and Cor groaned in furstration. Back to square one. Astrals give him _strength!_ “Look, just, drop it, okay?” he begged, tired and uncomfortable and obviously wanted to just shove the whole conversation away. “I get the whole 'everyone is beautiful to comeone' thing,” as if he hadn't had to deal with inappropriate come ons since he got here, as if Cor hadn't witnessed them personally, “but it doesn't change the fact that objectively speaking I'm a scrawny little runt.” Cor opened his mouth in disbelief and outrage because _they had been over this! He was not!_ But Harry continued without noticing. “And it's fine. I'm okay with that, I'm comfortable, I don't _care_. It's honestly kind of freeing actually.” Only if you were too _oblivious to notice_ the number of heads that turned in your wake, and the eyes that lingered far lower than your head, and on more interesting things than your feet. Cor was going out of his fucking mind. Who the fuck had destroyed this guy's sense of self-worth? Seriously? “I can dress, look, and eat how I like; people that talk to me generally aren't going to have ulterior motives – ”

They were ALL going to have ulterior motives, you stupid hot moron!

“You nearly got assaulted in Lestallum! Twice!” he snapped, about to reach out and _shake_ him physically, maybe if he did it hard enough he might rattle some common fucking sense loose! Only to snap his hands back before he touched because, damnit, he told himself _not without permission!_ He took a step back. “Harry, you _aren't_ ugly! How many times do I have to say it before it'll get through your thick skull?! You're going to get in trouble if you're not careful!” he snarled desperately. How often had he seen reports come in through the Crownsguard back in Insomnia? How many times had a soldier taken advantage of a too trusting civilian, his own _mother – _

Harry glared at him coldly, “I think I can tell when someone is dangerous for myself, thanks.”

He dragged a hand through his hair, fuck, he wasn't getting through to him and if he carried on he was going to ignore everything he said out of spite. Okay. New tack.

“Harry... that may have been the case in your home country, where you knew where you stood, where you know the social rules, where people had different values and culture.” Dumb culture, but he wasn't going to say that. “But Lucis is _different_. You _are_ attractive, people _are_ going to talk to you with ulterior motives, _men_ are going to talk to you with ulterior motives – and yeah, they might not _want_ to hurt you, or steal from you, or kill you, but they'll want something from you, and you might get hurt none the less when they try to get it!” he explained desperately. He needed to hammer this into that fluffy head of this before he got hurt, or worse.

Harry folded his arms unhappily, “Oh? And what might that be, since they're not looking to steal from me?” he demanded sarcastically. And given how same gendered partnerships were illegal in his home country then – it made sense that sexual assault would be outside the realm of his immediate concerns.

“Sex for a start!” he snarled, better to hammer this home. “They're going to want your body, your time, anything they can get. And you _hate_ people touching you. So how do you think it's going to go when you don't understand where someone is leading a conversation, when you end up in their house, or their flat, or their car, not realising what they want?” He has literally had waking nightmares about this very scenario and he would very much like to _never have them again_. “Not everyone is going to stop when you ask them to, and if you can't get to your weapons, if you didn't think to _bring_ them....” he trailed off meaningfully because if he didn't think to bring them while wondering around Longwythe on a supply run when they had literally just repelled an Imperial Attack several days ago, then....

“I can't just go around _assuming_ everyone who speaks to me wants in my pants, Cor! That's unbelievably arrogant and incredibly unlikely!” he protested in exasperation, stubborn to the last and _fuck damnit_.

“More likely than you'd think, but no, that's not what I'm saying! Just – just be _careful_. Just – it's a possibility – just be aware it's a possibility and be _careful_, that's all,” he begged, exhausted and exasperated. Why was this so hard to get through his _head_?

Harry sighed, dragging a hand through his hair, “I understand what you're saying.” Do you really? Then _why are you arguing?!_ “But I still think you're blowing it all out of proportion. No one is going to want to have sex with me.”

Oh for the love of –

“_I do!_ So did that guy in Lestallum! So did those women that Clarus had to save you from!” Those lovely green eyes went wide and his mouth opened in surprise, if he hadn't been so furious he might have been satisfied to see that something had finally sunk in. As it was... “Understand now?” he demanded harshly, scowling. “Other people aren't _going_ to keep their hands to themselves just because you ask them to.”

“What? Like you?” he warbled uncertainly, and Cor felt like he'd just been _slapped_.

“No! You think I'm going to touch you without your permission after you've said _repeatedly_ that you don't like it, or want it?” he demanded in disbelief.

Harry shook his head, “No, I mean – that wasn't what I meant.”

Sure as shit sounded like it.

“What _did_ you mean?!” he snarled, clenching his hands into fists, feeling sick to his stomach and dizzy with heat.

“_Hello? Is someone there? Help me!_”

* * *

“Did you know?” Clarus asked quietly in the dim gloom of the medical bay.

Cor lifted his head from where he had been sat at Harry's bedside, limp, cold fingers clasped in both of his own. Harry had always been somewhat cool to the touch, like Regis, but this? This was _cold_. And he didn't like it, at all. He didn't like anything about this, about Harry so pale and small in boiled white bed linens, tubes and monitors and IV lines attached to him, machines breathing for him as he lay as still as the dead, clinging to just one more day by cracked and broken nails.

“Know what?” he asked dully, not looking away.

“That he had magic.”

Because that was, of course, the most important thing here, obviously.

“He didn't exactly keep it a very good secret, Clarus,” he muttered. He'd been suspicious since their first trip to Steyliff when he said the ruins were magitek, that they spoke of other magical houses blessed by other Astrals and Messengers beyond the Lucis Caelums' and the Fleurets', when he made the walls ripple with just a touch. He'd seen the way his hands shook and how pale he seemed in the torch light in front of the door at Keycatrich, how Kimya had supported him more than he had supported her on their way out. He had _seen_ Harry tear that mind-flayer in half in Leide using his bare hands and _Holy_ magic. Really, that had been the confirmation by that point, he had been highly suspicious before hand. He wondered how the rest of the Retinue missed him _warping_ that day they split off, how his hand slipped from Cor's own and a split second later, he was landing foot-first on the side of Clarus' skull.

“Why didn't you _say_ anything?” the Shield demanded, anger leashed tight in his tone and Cor turned to look at him.

“Because the damage was already done and he was never going to trust any one of us ever again if I dared to say anything,” he stated plainly, because Harry needed to trust _someone_, needed to know that there was at least _one_ of them who would keep his secrets, who would protect him no matter what. Because Cor got the feeling that there was no one in his damn life who had ever done so, and someone needed to shield Harry from the world that had wronged him so deeply in the past.

Clarus snapped his mouth shut and looked away, stung and shame faced, and Cor turned back to his vigil.

Listening in silence as the Shield shifted, and then turned and left the med-bay.

He lifted Harry's hand and kissed his knuckles, saying nothing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Several scenes from Cor's POV. he's still hard for me to get into the head of XDDD;;; Still waters run deep and all that shit.


	15. Flock Together, Part 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **WARNINGS:** ABO!AU, Wing!AU, non-conventional ABO dynamics, omega!Harry ain't having none of your Alpha bullshit, cultural differences, disney-princess!Potter (aka The Second Coming of Hagrid), graphic violence, choking, gore, disassociation, ABO-based sexism, Clarus' A+ personality
> 
> **Summary:** Niflheim gets wind that there's another Lucis Caelum in the Vesperpool, and like always, ruin it for everyone.

“What do you _mean_ by '_when we return to Insomnia_'?” the young omega repeated with a dangerous edge to his tone as he slowly turned to face them properly from where he was perched top some rocks. Cor glanced between Weskham, Regis, and the other teenager, Regis' feathers had wiffled and sleeked themselves down to try and appear smaller, Weskham in contrast had puffed up a little though he tried to hide it by furling them tightly against his back so he wouldn't look so aggressive, Potter however.... his wings were semi-mantled over his shoulders, bristling excessively, which was quite a thing to see given the amount of downy feathers he had, and his eyes were pinning – pupils contracting rapidly with anger. And given the vivid almost unnatural green shade of his irises, it was quite unsettling to see.

Weskham held out a placating hand, “A young omega of Royal Blood cannot be _abandoned_ outside of the Walls, Harry,” he attempted to sooth, “His Royal Majesty has afforded us permission to return to Insomnia before our pilgrimage is completed in order to see you safely to the citadel.”

Potter's smile was... not a smile. It was a bearing of teeth.

“I see. And if I said no, what then?” he asked through his teeth, still gritted in a mockery of a smile, as his wings twitched even higher.

Cor wondered if he had any idea how aggressive his body language was, or if he even cared.

Weskham tried a different tact, “It is for your own safety, if Niflheim were to find out – ”

Apparently the wrong one.

They saw for one, brief, uncomfortable moment, lightning crackle across the feathers of his wings before he drew both his feet up under him and launched himself up into the air. Flying away from them entirely.

Weskham spluttered, and Cid very unhelpfully started laughing.

“This is no laughing matter, Cid!” the Retainer snapped, rounding on him, feathers bristling.

“It's hilarious,” the mechanic informed them with a chortle, “Y'all have no idea what yer doin'. What was th'first thing I told y'all about omega when we left th'city?” he demanded, pointing a work rough finger at them. “That they ain't th'soft an' meek homemakers Insomnia wants 'em t'be. That Insomnia _makes_ 'em be.”

Weskham threw both hands and wings up into the air, “Then _you_ convince him!”

Cid shook his head, “I can't. Ain' no one here what can. Kid ain' ever gunna agree t'bein' put in'a cage. Losin' battle Wesk. Learn to let it go,” he declared with a merry chortle.

“But his Majesty – ”

Cor ignored them and took off after the other boy, they could argue themselves in circles, his only job right now was to keep the omega safe. They could figure out the logistics of trying to get him to accept going somewhere he didn't want to go without him.

* * *

Harry's shoulders were killing him, he shouldn't have flown off like that, he was in no way ready for sustained flight like this but like _hell_ was he sticking around for that fucking shitshow. He seethed with quiet fury as he rode the faint wind coming up off the lake and towards the Myrlwood.

He had been wondering when they would come out with what they wanted from him, but this? Bull. Shit.

Royalty his left nutsack.

He glance over his shoulder, spotting the teenager with the eagle wings following him at a distance in silence. As tempting as it was to go into full Quidditch manoeuvres, he knew he didn't have the speed or strength yet to make it worth it, so instead he opted to ignore him and break his first rule about where he slept – he headed for Muffin's clearing instead of his shelter. Hopefully if he got himself comfortable with Muffin the ghost lady wouldn't bother him. The others wouldn't bother him if he was curled up between the forelegs of a 'Dread King Bandersnatch', or whatever they called his sentient rosebush either.

Muffin grumbled to see him, chuffing and shaking his horns as Harry gracelessly landed in the mud and stumbled to his hands and knees. The huge creature lumbered over and snuffed at him, Harry laughed a little reaching up to grab at the huge mandible above his head and used it to get to his feet, taking a moment to scratch all those places he knew the grumpy bastard liked best.

Muffin puffed an awful lot of steam and shivered under his touch as Harry managed to break off a lot of the dry mud that had managed to gather in the folds of his skin around his thorns. Hm. He had been rolling around in the mudflats again to try and cool off, which was a good idea but it also left him with mud in places he couldn't reach, which just left him even more hot and uncomfortable when it dried. Harry began to climb him, reaching around to get at all the clumps and clots, making sure to pick off any insects of parasites he saw in the process, Muffin eventually laying down with a low churr, chewing on something, likely some manner of regurgitated vegetation or fish like cows back on earth used to. Muffin ate pretty much anything Harry brought him, but he did chow down on a lot of _tree_, which was probably hell on the digestive system – and unlike the books on dinosaurs he recalled, he hadn't seen the big guy add any rocks to his meal plan.

He spotted eagle-boy at the top of the cliff where he'd sat down and was just watching, but he didn't have a sword to hand and apart from having really bristled up wings, wasn't looking very aggressive or coming any closer so.... Harry ignored him and continued what he was doing.

Eventually he ran out of beastie to clean and clambered his way down Muffin's side, only to have the huge creature shift and begin shepherding him towards his face. It wasn't the first time he'd done this so Harry let himself be gathered up between his forepaws, and curled up himself as the cage of his mandibles dropped down over his head to rest against those forepaws, creating a sanctuary where the only way anyone could get to him was if they were literally willing to risk climbing into Muffin's mouth.

He spotted the rest of the morons at the top of the cliff behind Muffin's elbow, and felt more than a considerable degree of smug amusement at their dismay as he got himself comfortable.

Good luck kidnapping him now.

* * *

The impasse with the fancy city boys lasted another two days, he snuck out and around them in the quiet moments to get food and water, it pissed them off something fierce when he slipped his minders because for some reason they expected him to be utterly fucking helpless. Or at least too stupid to figure out how to get away from them. Or was it that he was apparently stupid enough to sneak away from people who only wanted to protect him? In a place where they needed more protecting than he did.

Or was it that he challenged their authority?

He'd seen expressions like that on the Professors' faces often enough to know when they were cheesed off at being disrespected.

He got the feeling that Albatross was an inch away from physically manhandling him to their car and damn the consequences (the consequences would be Harry setting him on fucking fire). Kingfisher was still trying the nicely nice coaxing reasonable explanation route, attempting to get close and talk and _reason_ with him about willingly letting them lock him away. For his own good, of course. Black Swan didn't seem to know how to convince him but tended to be the one who shooed the rest of them away and just tried to _talk_ to him as a person. It made it obnoxiously difficult to hate him on sheer principle, and Harry actually found himself feeling a little guilty about putting him in such a terrible position (he had to forcibly remind himself of Cid's words about not only how 'omega' were treated in this Insomnia place, 1950's women by the sound of it, but also what he'd learned from Kimya about how it was literally just a giant fucking magic birdcage that people go in but never come out from). Cid, the only one whose name he bothered to remember, was content to let Harry come to him with questions – which he did, eventually, but only about the shit he didn't understand, the changes to his body. It was.... When he got his hands on the one responsible for changing his body into something _other_ without his permission there was going to be hell to pay. He never had, what did Lisa Turpin call it.... Body Dysmorphia? Dysphoria? He never had that before now. And the horrible thing was, his body technically hadn't changed all that much. It looked identical to how it always had done. All the differences were on the inside (apart from the wings, but he didn't _mean_ those). Eagle was the least objectionable of them aside from Cid. He kept his distance, but he was there, just keeping an eye on things. Likely some kind of bodyguard. Harry disliked him for that on principle, but at least he was quiet and didn't intrude, or get pissed off and throw a tantrum _unlike some_ when Harry gave him the slip.

He woke the morning of the third to the sound of gunfire, Muffin launching himself to his feet with a screeching bellow, and the sound of engines in the air.

Harry squawked as he tumbled free of the bandersnatch's forelegs and chest where he had been cuddled up, adrenaline burning sleep from his brain as he saw the falling rain of – soldiers with weird fin-like metallic wings, landing in the clearing all around them. Where were they _coming_ from?!

He looked up to see a flying brick with a malevolent glowing red engine somehow managing to hold it aloft against all known laws of physics, belly open, allowing row upon row of armed soldiers to drop down into the clearing where Muffin was going berserk. Too berserk to pay attention to where he was putting his feet Harry realised when he very nearly got stepped on in a furious charge into a forming rank of soldiers.

Those bastards were attacking his sentient rosebush!

Harry threw himself into the fight, drawing up fistfuls of fire and lightning as he landed on the back of the nearest soldier, shredding through the metal wings like tissue paper with cutting curses.

Muffin screamed, and he turned – a soldier tackled him to the ground and rammed a sword through his wing, pinning him to the mud.

Harry screeched as his head slammed back into shallow water, choking as mud and water sloshed into his mouth, as he was forced down, harsh metallic hands going around his neck, Muffin screeching somewhere not too far away, the ground shuddering with impact after impact.

Cutting curses shredded the bastard above him and Harry spluttered, jerking upright as much as he could, vomiting and choking, trying to breathe. He couldn't get up, every movement _hurt_.

He could hear shouting but it didn't matter.

With shaking hands, he reached out and grabbed the sword pinning his wing down and heaved, crying out as he wrenched it free. He had to – he had to get to Muffin.

He wheezed, banishing the sword at one of the soldiers, watching hazily as it punched straight through his chest and flung him to the ground.

Huh.

That

was

probably a good idea.

He summoned every sword in the clearing, there were a lot. If he and Ron hadn't got it into their heads to invent this trick back in first year using the levitation charm and snowballs, and then perfected it in fourth year with the summoning and banishing charm.... this would have been impossible.

Either way.

Harry called on every weapon in the clearing, and wielded them all at the same time, slicing, skewering, _shredding_, every enemy there, directing his whirling wall of swords and axes around himself with his hands like her would have a wand, flicking his fingers out for lack of an appropriate focus.

As soon as the last soldier vanished, he dropped them, and staggered to the fallen giant.

Bloody sides heaved, ripped open and wet and raw with pouring blood as Harry scrambled to his side.

He didn't get there. Albatross landed in the mud beside him with a skid, huge broadsword over one shoulder. “Time to go!” the huge man declared, snatching Harry up by the waist even as he tried to stagger past him.

“No! Muffin's hurt!” he croaked painfully past his bruised neck, trying to squirm free.

“Muffin's dead! He ain't getting back up! Regis! Get the fucking shuriken before the second wave!” he bellowed as the rest of the fancy bastards landed in the clearing, all of them bloodied, covered in oil and dirt. Apparently Harry's clearing hadn't been the only place attacked.

He twisted like a livewire, planted his foot _firmly_ between the fork of the man's legs, and heaved himself free with a snarl and an _agonising_ thrust of his wings. He ignored the splatter of blood he left in his wake as he lunged for Muffin's side. His healing magic was.... not up to this, but he had to _try!_

And then the second wave arrived – with flamethrowers.

Albatross ripped him away from Muffin and threw himself into the air without so much as a by your leave.

Myrlwood burned below them.

* * *

Regis was worried, no, he was outright _concerned_.

Harry hadn't spoken a word since they'd fled the Myrlwood, since he tried to escape Clarus for the third time when they arrived at the Regalia only for the Shield to lose his temper and bellow right in his face, shaking him roughly by the upper arms before shoving him into the car as a forth dropship approached from the east.

They fled south-west, past the conflagration that was the Myrlwood, through the tunnel that followed the river down towards Catalan's Plunge, and spun a hard left – going straight to Lestallum where they parked the car in the petrol station where it could be hidden under the roofing from a casual fly-by long enough for Cid to change the paint job, and Weskham to deal with the injury that none of them had noticed to Harry's wing.

The omega hadn't uttered a single peep, and Regis had no doubt if it weren't for the bruising grip Clarus kept on his arm he would have bolted the second they got out of the car. It might have been because of the bruising on his neck, dark and livid, and _infuriating_ to every single one of them and the little voice in the back of their head that said they'd _failed to protect_ him. But somehow.... somehow Regis got the feeling that a little bit of pain wouldn't stop this one from giving anyone a well deserved tongue lashing.

If looks could have killed....

Blood had pooled a little in the car's footwell, meaning that Harry was bleeding rapidly, he wasn't calming down at all as Weskham carefully probed his sodden wings, commenting on how they were going to have to use an antidote as well because they were covered in mud and stagnant water from the clearing. A bath would have been better, he knew his retainer desperately wanted to get the young omega into a bathtub and some proper clothes that _weren't_ rags, but right now....

His whole body was wound up tight enough to snap and every touch had his upper lip curling in a silent snarl of displeasure.

Getting him naked at this point was going to result in bloodshed, and with the mood Clarus was in, it was a toss up over who would get hurt.

But still.

He got the feeling that the way they'd handled the ambush in the Myrlwood was in the wrong, especially at the end there. From a military standpoint it was the right decision. The bandersnatch was dead, not even a phoenix down could reconstruct that chest cavity back to what it should have been, Harry had blood up to his elbows from trying to get the beast's organs back into its body before Clarus yanked him away. If they'd stayed it would have put all of them in danger, especially Harry, when the fourth dropship arrived – they had been targeting him specifically if the number of troops that landed in his clearing had been any indication. At least before he used what was possibly the most terrifying application of magic that Regis had ever seen and made _**confetti**_ out of everything around him.

He was beginning to doubt the wisdom of forcing him into Insomnia if he were capable of destruction like that.

On the other hand.... they had been.... severely insensitive. Harry was not raised to Lucian culture, and according to Cid was completely ignorant to social convention regarding alpha and omega roles and hierarchy, on top of that, he wasn't military at all. They had been unbelievably rude, and Regis had known it before now, just never really taken in how _much_, until Cid finally got fed up with Clarus' griping and spelled it out to them. The omega had been completely self-sufficient, surviving, _thriving_ even, he had built himself a comfortable flock out of the Vesperpool's residents, food, shelter, water, all handled. And suddenly a bunch of strangers show up saying that they're related and that he has to do as they tell him, come with them and abandon his nest, his flock, and everything he had built for himself with his own two hands and hard work to go into what he viewed as a glorified bird cage. He didn't even have proof that Regis was royalty, didn't have proof that what was waiting for him was safe or even pleasant, he didn't _know_ them, didn't _trust_ them.

They had essentially kidnapped him from the corpse of his closest friend and protector, and Clarus had told him off for trying to get back, had _hurt_ him, left finger shaped bruises on both arms and even now left more on the arm he kept hold of to prevent him from running as Weskham applied the antidote to prevent any infections or parasites from getting into his wound, and then a potion to heal it up. His attempt to preen them caused every single one of his wet and filthy feathers to bristle up defensively, and Weskham quickly pulled his hands back, taking the warning for what it was.

Regis wet his lips and headed over, “Harry...” no acknowledgement but then again, he wasn't sure if he had even expected one really at this point, “I am sorry about Muffin,” he murmured honestly, “About dragging you away like that.” That at least had his cousin look at him. His eyes were still pinned, pupils pinpricks, leaving vivid solid green to glare up at him from under muddy wet hair. But the look of hatred had softened to mere anger. “I know you won't care for reasons or excuses, not right now. But please know, I am sorry we could not save him.”

He had never seen a fiend, Dread King classification or not, ever be so gentle with another living being that hadn't been its own young. And even then, there were plenty of fiends who did not possess a parental bone within their bodies and were more likely to consume their own young than coddle them the way he had seen that bandersnatch do the young omega.

Cid and Cor arrived then, “Got a pair'a'rooms at th'Leville, staff are unlockin' th'roof-entrance fer us now. If we move quick, we can get in 'fore th'next patrol,” the old grinch declared before heading over and smacking Clarus' hand away from the omega, “Yer leavin' bruises. Back off,” he snapped even as his hand snapped down and caught Harry by the wing joint before he could so much as twitch towards freedom, prompting a rasping gasp and grunt. “Y'all want t'restrain an omega without hurtin' 'em y'go fer th'wings. Keep yer hands t'yerselves till y'all learn how t'do it without hurtin' 'em,” he barked.

Clarus bristled, “Didn't see you stepping in back at the Myrlwood! It got him out before he got filled full of holes!” he snarled angrily.

The old man nodded, “Right. That it did. But any chance y'all had a'combinin' th'bloodlines like y'were talkin' about all sneaky like jest went so far outta th'window its vacationin' on th'Star itself,” he sneered and Regis felt himself go a bit pink and white at the same time. It hadn't been a serious discussion what so ever! Insomnia did _not_ endorse arranged marriages! It had just been a general talk about how beneficial for both families, bringing magic to the Amacitia bloodlines instead of forcing them into vows that would render a Shield helpless should the King die before the Prince could take their role, and it would tie the Amacitia even more tightly to the Lucis Caelums'. Innocuous and innocent, brought about only because of an absent comment about how pretty the omega had been, and how he would probably only improve with age and a little bit of grooming.

But judging by the way Harry had gone chalk white, and every single one of his feathers had wiffled, laying flat and tight with horror against his body even while being held in Cid's iron grip....

“I'd sooner slit my own throat,” the omega croaked with shaky certainty, which was one hell of a slap in the face, making Clarus snarl, and the teenager jerk away hard enough that Cid almost lost his balance.

The Shield froze at the very real defensive reaction that _no_ Lucis Caelum should have ever had against an Amacitia, and took three staggered steps backwards.

This was a goddamn mess.

He stepped between them, “We are tired and stressed. Baths, food, and a quiet moment to calm down. We will return to this discussion once we've all had a chance to settle ourselves,” he told them, gesturing at Weskham to help Cid with Harry and nodding at Cor to resume his protective detail.

Regis had a feeling he was going to be fielding a long unpleasant emotional breakdown from Clarus.

* * *

Cid insisted on a bath first, Harry wasn't particularly shy so he didn't make any fuss when the old man headed in with him – and shoved Kingfisher out with a pointed scowl. He at least seemed to think Harry was capable of handling his own personal hygiene for the most part. Though he did point out, quite flatly, that a second pair of hands were going to be needed to help him preen his wings after today.

“Preenin' someone's wings is generally considered pretty intimate after a certain age,” he warned seriously as he tossed a bottle of conditioner at Harry with a jabbed finger to read the instructions and follow them. “But its considered acceptable fer family members every now an' again. I still sometimes go at Mid's wings iffin' 'e ever sits still long enough fer me t'straighten 'em. If yer alright with it, I'll do yers this time, an' show y'all how t'do it on m'self, so y'know how t'do it properly fer next time.”

He squinted at the conditioner instructions, slicking his hair with it, making sure he got the whole lot and then considering the old man's words.

“I don't – I'm not generally okay with people touching me,” he admitted with a grimace, “I don't know how I'll react.”

Cid shrugged as he grabbed a bottle of feather conditioner. “One way ter find out. Best way ter clean is from th'inside out, top ter bottom. Get a good handful'a'th'conditioner on yer hands, and jest, run yer fingers through yer feathers. Nice even strokes, make sure t'get right down ter th'skin,” he explained as as he sank both hands into the soft downy fluff of Harry's back.

He couldn't stop himself from tensing up horribly, but Cid made sure to keep talking, keep explaining, never hurrying or rushing or doing anything but running his fingers through Harry's feathers. Detailing whenever he found a bent or squwify one that needed straightening. He advised against plucking them as blood ran through the shafts and even a bent feather could bleed like a good'un when plucked too soon. Most down would fall away easy so he shouldn't get alarmed if he saw large amounts on the floor when they were done.

It was.... soothing.

He kind of drifted off for a bit, hugging his knees to his chest, listening to the old mechanic chatter as he worked on his feathers before handing him the bottle and telling him that he could do the front himself, just follow his example.

He turned on his stool and did just that, and then watched as he went through preening your own feathers at the back, even showing him a soft wooden comb (it looked like a rake) with half-centimetre blunt teeth that many would coat with conditioner and use to get those trouble spots they couldn't reach. But it was never as good as when someone else did it for them.

Eventually they were both done and, Harry flushed as he dried off.

That was a lot of feather down left behind.

Cid just snorted and handed him a soft bristle broom from a cupboard, “They got specialised bin fer that, see th'panel on th'floor there? Open it up and sweep everythin' inter there.”

Harry worked quickly, mortified to have made so much of a mess even if there were a few of Cid's scarlet feathers mixed in amongst them, it was like someone had exploded a black pillow in there, his feathers were everywhere.

“Mmn, Wesk must'a gone out ter get y'all some clothes,” Cid suddenly declared, appearing with some folded garments in his hands. “Get dressed an' we'll go out an' eat.”

He stared down at the brand-new clean clothing that the old man set on the side next to the sink for him.

He caught the bottom of his scarlet flight pinion, making him pause and look back even as Harry couldn't drag his eyes up from the floor. Grabbing at someone else's wing was considered a big faux pas, but anyone who'd had fledgelings knew they went for the closest thing they could reach, so parents got pretty used to having their wings pulled. Harry wasn't a child, but Cid liked to think he'd gotten a handle on a few of his quirks by now, catching his wing like that was his way of limiting as much contact and potential for harm between them as possible. A pulled feather might hurt, but not that much, and it was safer than getting within arms' reach.

“What.... what's going to happen to me now...?” he asked quietly.

Out of everyone in this sorry shitshow, he was pretty sure Cid was the only one who was going to give him a straight answer, no sugar coating it, no dancing around the truth or the bad stuff. And Harry wasn't stupid enough to believe that they were just going to let him escape, not if they were willing to drag him out of a firefight and then buy him stuff. That indicated investment. If they were invested in him, then they weren't going to let him go until they'd gotten what they wanted. He just didn't know what that was. Or whether or not he was prepared to give it to them just so they would leave him alone.

Cid took a deep breath and turned to him.

“They'll want ter take y'all t'Insomnia, th'Crown City, where th'King is waitin' fer y'all,” he stated calmly, eyes lingering on the long scar that lashed across the omega's tiny chest, collar to hip, the scars etched deep on his arms, the back of his hand, and the jagged tears up his leg. No, he wasn't going to coddle this kid. He would treat him with the same respect he gave Cor. He might not be a soldier, but that didn't mean he hadn't seen some shit. “Y'know our bloodtests confirmed a blood relation. Y'won't be in line fer th'throne no matter what anyone says, not unless Reggie dies without leavin' an Heir and th'King kicks it a'fore he can bash out another one.” The kid grimaced in disgust and Cid found himself snorting in amusement. Well, at least he'd fit in with delicate sensibilities like that.

“I don't care about that. I don't want any of that,” he muttered unhappily.

“Y'all'll'be given lessons ter catch up on yer education an'.... well after that it depends on you,” he sighed, receiving the suspicious frown he expected from the kid. “They don't _want_ anythin' from y'all, Fledge. Yer family, an' fer a Lucis Caelum, they don't get a whole lotta that. So family is important.” He shrugged then, “Also, yer omega. In a family that don't get many of 'em, yer precious to 'em fer it. But it also means that others'll look ter do y'wrong because y'll be considered a weak spot. Hence what happened earlier t'day.”

He jerked upright, eyes ballooning out, wide and dark, “What?”

Cid grimaced, and gently laid a hand on the kid's shoulder, “They weren't there fer us, Fledge. If Niflheim get their hands on an omega Lucis Caelum, that means they get access ter magic. Access ter th'Crystal which protects Lucis. Access ter th'Astrals. Fledge, y'all'll'be lucky they don't turn y'inter a science experiment. Or a baby factory.”

He blanched chalk white and trembled violently under his hand, all of his feathers flattening.

“Now, maybe y'can live out here, but those wings'a'yer's are a big honkin' screamin' signal ter everyone with eyes – royalty, right here. Omega royalty, come get it. Y'll never get a moment's peace now that they know y'exist,” he explained as gently as possible. Weskham had been on the right route when he tried to explain the situation to the kid before, but he went about it the wrong way, tried to big Insomnia up too much. Made the kid suspicious of their intentions and the destination. This? This was a concrete reality he was presenting. “Some folk'll protect y'all ter the best o'their ability 'cause'a'it. Like th'Lady Auburnbrie. But some'll sell y'out jest fer the principle o'th'matter 'cause Lucis is losin' th'war. An' folk ain't happy about it.”

He wrapped his arms around himself, wings curling unhappily, “So, because other people can't get their shit together, I have to go back in the box. For _My Own Good_, huh....” he muttered miserably. Evidently not an unfamiliar situation.

Cid patted his shoulder, “Sorry kid. I'll talk ter Mors, th'King. 'e's an old friend. It won't be as bad as yer thinkin',” he promised.

The omega just hummed with quiet almost sad doubt.

* * *

Cor slept with his back against the door, Clarus against the window.

And yet, Cor woke in the small hours with the sudden gut sinking cold realisation that Harry had escaped. Clarus was a heavy sleeper but he wouldn't have shirked his duties, and yet the proof was right there, one of the smaller windows in the corner, he would have thought it far too small, but there were ripped free feathers caught in it proving that Harry had escaped by squeezing himself through an opening that would have been difficult even for a child.

He quickly shook Cid awake to explain the situation, the old man looked alarmed and confused before resigned and dragging a hand down his face. A moment later he was thumping Weskham and telling him to watch the door while he and Cor went looking for their runaway – _let Regis sleep_. He had been worrying himself into insomnia about how to get the kid to the Crown City when he so clearly didn't want to go.

The two quickly left, Cid checking the town while Cor took to the air, searching for high-points. He had figured out pretty early on that Harry preferred to either be enclosed in a small enough space that no one could reach him, or up high enough for much the same reason. He didn't seem to be on any of the cliffs, and he certainly wasn't in the meteorshard basin where the powerplant was.

Just to cover his bases before he went to tell Cid he was flying back to the Myrlwood, he went to the rift.

He didn't know what he expected, he just wanted to cover all his bases, but right there, in the middle of one of the iridescent crystal-growths that spanned the length of the canyon, was a small black feathered speck.

He wasn't quiet as he landed, but the omega didn't so much as twitch or look at him, sat with his knees hugged to his chest, wings curled over his shoulders as he silently stared down into the depths. Cor wanted to snap and snarl at him about leaving but the air felt... heavy. Everything about him just looked... listless, and a little lost.

He took a deep breath and sat down beside him instead, contemplating summoning his phone but deciding against it. Now wasn't the time to be placing a phonecall.

Instead...

“You alright?” he asked quietly, watching him from the corner of his eye as a chill wind swept through the canyon and ruffled hair and feathers. He got an apathetic shrug and a tightening of the omega's facial features that definitely said that no, he was not, but thanks for asking, as he continued to stare out down the canyon.

Cor turned and followed his line of sight, frowning a little as he realised it was a daemon nest in the distance he was watching. The two of them sat in silence, watching the distant figures milling around, not fighting amongst themselves, seemingly un_aware_ of each other actually. Cor didn't think he had ever taken any time to just watch a daemon, it was weirdly unsettling to do so now, even with this much distance between them. He didn't like the idea of a nest _that_ dense so close to Lestallum. At all.

“What's Insomnia like?” Harry asked quietly, it was barely a whisper, likely not meant to be heard but, his ears had always been good, despite his years in the army.

“It's.... the biggest city in Lucis. Bigger than the Vesperpool by five, maybe six times,” he explained, “We have reliable electricity, gas, and water. Public transport, education, and national health service. There are festivals on Astral days, and Founding day, huge street parties. The Citadel is the centre of the city, it needs to be to power the Wall. The ground floor is a museum, second floor an art gallery. Entertainment is a pretty big industry in Insomnia....” he continued, drawing a knee up. “I don't know much about things outside the military, citadel, or the refugee quarter though, sorry.”

There was a brief silence, “Tell me about it anyway, the refugee quarter. I pretty much am one right now. I should know what to expect,” he muttered unhappily.

Cor shook his head, “You won't be in the refugee quarter.”

He huffed a quiet breath, “It sounds so selfish when I think about it. How many people would kill to have family come out of no where and take them away, only to find out that family is royalty or something. Absolutely filthy stinking rich. And I just want to run away. I don't want anything to do with it. I just want to go home.” He ducked his head down and his wings drew even more tightly around him, curling around him in a way that only an omega could manage, shielding himself entirely in a cocoon of black feathers. “But staying out here would be even worse, wouldn't it? Because it would put people in danger when those soldiers come back,” he continued, his voice muffled with feathers.

He sighed quietly and, even though it _itched_ under his skin to be so improper, he shifted a little closer and dropped a wing over him, like a heavy blanket. “Yeah,” he agreed, it did sound selfish, but it was also understandable, and yeah, staying out would be worse. Good people would be hurt because Niflheim wouldn't care about civilians getting in their way if it meant getting hold of the bloodline.

There was a long silence as he watched the milling daemons in the distance and then a ragged sigh from under his wing.

“I don't know how to do this,” he muttered roughly, “I grew up in a cupboard eating scraps out of a bin. I can't do this. I can't be what they want.”

Hellfire.

He pressed his wing down a little firmer but kept his hands to himself, recalling Cid's quiet warning to all of them that the kid had a thing against being touched, but it was hard. He was definitely going to need to have a word with Regis and His Royal Majesty. They had been assuming he was a regular civilian, if not upperclass. But this indicated he had an upbringing akin to, if not worse, than Cor's own.

“We'll figure it out,” he muttered.

It was the only reassurance he could offer, and it felt incredibly inadequate as the omega shook in silence.

* * *

“If I knew all it took to calm him down like this, I'd have killed that bandersnatch within the hour,” Clarus muttered as they got out of the Regalia at the Leide border.

Weskham closed his eyes and fought against his incredibly inappropriate desire to snap at his colleague. Clarus was very much his father's son and a devout Shield. But that often meant he was as hard-headed and obtuse as a shield as well. As long as there was _physically_ no problem with his charge, then as far as he was concerned there was no problem. It was Weskham's job to ensure their mental health as well as all those other little things that didn't pertain to simple protection. Regis was his primary charge, but he was also settled in his role, comfortable and reliable, and well established in both himself and his responsibility and position in the world. Unlike him though, they had just completely uprooted an omega from his chosen nest, left for dead his entire flock, and were now absconding with him to the otherside of the country entirely. His silence and listlessness was _**not**_ a good sign, and if Clarus couldn't pull his _head_ from his _ass_ long enough to take note that the poor child was going off his _food_ then Weskham would at least appreciate it if he kept his _tongue_ behind his _teeth_ and didn't make the situation _worse_.

Cor shot him a filthy glance as he climbed out after him, “It isn't a good thing, Clarus,” he muttered pointedly.

“It's a great thing from where I'm standing,” the Shield dismissed.

The teenager made a sound of disgust, “Never breed,” he snipped unhappily, “Neither your children or partner deserve that attitude,” he bit out before stalking away, ignoring the sharp almost subvocal noise the alpha made in his wake.

Regis looked exhausted and guilty, he was keeping his distance from his cousin even though he practically bristled his feathers, wanting to get closer, every time Harry looked anything other than purposefully stony faced. It was probably hitting him particularly hard that Cid was the only one he could sit with in the car and not vibrate from tension and disgust hard enough to hurt himself. It was probably for the best, he already had a wife, and his son was an omega – no one could accuse Cid Sophiar of being inappropriate with an unpresented omega.

The border guard gaped to see Harry, taking in the black wings which were still thick with fluffy down but much healthier than when they had first met him. Regular preening and proper care had deepened the midnight colouring and really brought out the Lucis Caelum blue sheen, he hardly looked as impressive as any of them in his hastily bought t-shirt and jeans that Weskham had picked up in Lestallum, but the guard stared all the same, eyes lingering on the extra joint in his wings with excited expressions.

And thus they returned to the one part of Lucian culture that Cor genuinely disliked. Omega was synonymous with 'female' here. Omega males were placed into the same sex category as women, while Alphas were placed into the same sex category as men. Individuals with opposing secondaries always ended up in the category their secondaries represented – not their _primaries_, which in his opinion made a lot more sense, no. The secondaries dictated what changing room they went to in schools, wards in the hospital, barracks in the army. It had confused him for the longest time, one of the older guys who took him under his wing as a fresh trooper explained it bluntly enough after a while. It was the knot. Alphas didn't want to fuck without knotting. Female alphas didn't have the specific muscle to stimulate a knot, ergo, many considered them undesirable or just 'one of the guys', meaning that they would be safe in a changing room/bathroom with an alpha male, but the omegas had to be kept separate to retain their innocence and safety, which made absolutely no sense to him but he already knew that he had weird tastes (like his unit continually liked to remind him when he went arse over pinion for the mechanic who was missing half a grey and pink wing and had burns up one half of her face, but the most fascinating hands. Watching her pull wires and pipes out of a machine and get hot and sweaty while working had been a source of much interest to him, and hilarity to his unit when all he could do was stare and blush and avoid her even as he tried to show off a little every time they saw each other).

So for Harry, being an omega Lucis Caelum – it was like a princess had just showed up at their border outpost.

A lot of people's wings went several inches up and out, chests were puffed, and chins were lifted.

Cor shook his head in mild disgust and discomfort. Had he really done that too? Clarus and Regis teased him about it but he didn't think he'd been _that_ bad.

(He silently acknowledged that maybe he had been, a little bit, as they climbed back into the car.)

* * *

There was a car waiting for them when they reached the Wall proper.

A car for _them_, and three escort vehicles. Tyberius Scientia the current head of the Royal Guard also happened to be in attendance, the former Tenebraean saluted smartly as Regis climbed out of the car, bowing to him, and then to Harry who tensed up visibly at the deference.

“His Royal Majesty hopes your trip has been safe, Your Highness,” the man intoned politely, still retaining his exceptionally thick accent even now. “He requests that the Regalia remain here so as not to stir the public until such time as the Citadel formally announces the Young Highness' presence.” Translation: You left on a mission that has nothing to do with this, better not confuse the public with your return until we're ready to tell everyone we just found a bastard.

“I understand. Thank you Captain Scientia. Harry, please allow me to introduce the head of the Royal Guard, Captain Tyberius Scientia, he will be in charge of arranging your protection detail here in Insomnia,” Regis introduced, smiling as kindly as he could at the stone-faced omega who couldn't have been broadcasting 'I don't want to be here' any harder if he actually tried.

“Thank you for your consideration,” the teenager intoned calmly with a polite nod. Which was better than any of them had been expecting from him in all honesty. If it hadn't been for his wings broadcasting that he would rather chew his leg off than be there, it might have even been believable.

Tyberius only smiled faintly and held the car door open for them, “Please.”

At least the limo had enough space for everyone to sit without being on anyone's lap or crushing any pinions – that was the only problem with the Regalia, it was a lovely big car, very comfortable, but for five men three of which had not inconsiderable wing-spans, it got a little cramped in the backseat.

Harry stared out of the window the whole drive with a strange look in his eyes, nostalgic and homesick, before he eventually just looked away and refused to pay attention to any of the sights even when they attempted to prompt him. Cor honestly wondered what they expected from the other teenager at this point, he had made no secret that he didn't want to be here, the fact that he was willingly allowing them to drag him in just to keep other people face from whatever rampage Niflheim may enact in order to get to him was the only reason he hadn't completely given them the slip that night in Lestallum.

The King was waiting for them on the front steps of the Citadel as the limo pulled up.

Harry froze as soon as he looked out.

Cor was the only one close enough to hear the confused whisper of “S-Sirius?” from the omega before he shook his head with an almost silent sound of pain.

The doors were opened and everyone stepped out, bowing to their King, even Regis. It took a split second before Harry followed suit, looking incredibly out of his depth as King Mors hobbled down the stairs.

“Father,” Regis murmured in concern, abandoning his bow to rush to the King's side. Cor clenched his fists. They had only been gone for six months, his condition shouldn't have deteriorated this badly, so quickly.

“I am glad to see you well, Regis. You have grown tanned in your absence,” the King observed with a smile as he patted his son's cheek. “You will share your adventures with me at dinner tonight,” he said. Kings' didn't ask questions or make requests, but there was a slightly hopeful lift in his words.

Regis was all smiles, “Of course, father. I look forward to it.” He then looked over at them and beamed as Harry tensed up once again, wings bristling with discomfort, “Father, please allow me to introduce Harry Potter, the young man found by the Auburnbrie sisters in Cleigne. Harry, please allow me to introduce His Royal Majesty King Mors Lucis Caelum, my much loved father.”

Harry wet his lips and nervously took a few steps forward and, wow, okay, the resemblance between Harry and Regis had been obvious, but the similarities between him and the King were almost _uncanny_. Harry's general _everything_ was softer and sweeter, but the sharp jut of his cheekbones, jaw, and eyebrows were made all the more prominent for his lack of weight. With His Majesty in front of him, little better than skin and bone himself, his vitality and strength stolen by the toll paid to protect the Kingdom via the Wall, the resemblance was striking.

His Majesty's brown-green eyes lingered on the extra joint in Harry's wings, on the thick feather down that still cling to his back, the scars, coarse hair and unhappy expression, before his expression softened with something that could very well have been apology or kindness or pity, it was impossible to tell.

“Welcome home.”

And Cor wasn't the only one who had to suppress a grimace at the incredibly poorly chosen words.

* * *

The King was dying.

It was easy for anyone with eyes to see, he was literally wasting away, and Harry didn't have it in him to be a bastard to him, now when he looked so much like Sirius, not when Regis curled a wing around him so protectively and held his hand like it was one of the most precious things in the world. The King leaned heavily on his cane, his legs moving stiffly, his wings braced together and against his back in a way that would prevent them from dragging on the ground when it was clear he didn't have the strength to hold them up himself.

Harry was taken to the medical wing first of all for the doctors and nurses to give him a thorough check up, they tutted and cooed over how scuffed up and hard done by he was when they saw the scars before questioning him on his medical history.

He was _tired_. And feeling spiteful.

Cid told him not to hide anything if he wanted to make sure his boundaries weren't fucked with, so he did. He told them absolutely _everything_. The murder attempt as a child, the death curse, the decade of starvation, neglect, physical abuse, emotional abuse, more murder attempts at school, choking, magical exhaustion, starvation part two with a side of imprisonment, more murder attempts, phoenix tears and basilisk venom, vanished and regrown bones, more murder attempts, accidental magic incidents, even more murder attempts, stress, magical contracts, torture curses, control spells, a little light mauling here and there, more attempted murder, more choking and physical abuse, more torture, unwanted teleportation that brought him to the Vesperpool where only a little bit of attempted murder happened, but hey he got a lot more food, a lot better sleep, and less things trying to kill him. He considered that a win.

Hence why he didn't want to leave.

And he made sure to tell them that. He hadn't wanted to leave the Vesper.

The woman helping him sighed heavily and said something about how he should be honest, only to have the man next to her quite calmly ask her to go and fetch something from somewhere else before turning to Harry and stating that the libra spells confirmed his story. They would write up a meal plan to get his weight back on track and hopefully deal with some of the minor health issues that had been raised as a result of his childhood, his dropped arches for a start, plantar-fascia, he would need a lot of dental work, they'll arrange appointments for that and an eye-test, see if they couldn't improve his prescription, get him a back-brace for his wings until his musculature had caught up with the weight of them. He was overworking the underdeveloped muscles with his current activities and it was going to cause problems with his spine eventually.

For now, take these supplements. These before a meal, these two hours before or after, and these once a day no dietary requirements. They would get his blood and hormones to where they should be and hopefully get started on improving that bone density and other such things. Oh. And before he forgets, medicated conditioner for his wings. Since he still had down at his age, his skin would be extra sensitive, prone to irritation.

“I'll make sure to inform the kitchens and your retainer,” the doctor chuckled as he made a few notes.

Harry frowned at him, pulling his t-shirt back on, “Retainer? I don't have one of those,” he pointed out as he buttoned up the back of his shirt.

The doctor shook his head, “You will eventually. But if it makes you feel better I'll write it down for you anyway,” he offered as he tugged another instruction sheet towards himself, noting down the dosages and times for each of the drugs and supplements he was giving him.

Cor and an unfamiliar stern-faced woman in a black matron's uniform were waiting for him outside, Harry paused at the sight of the new face, and the fact that she looked like some unholy mixture of Aunt Petunia and Narcissa Malfoy, now in brunette.

“This is Madam Sterpis,” Cor introduced calmly in the face of his sudden and obvious wariness, “She was Regis' nanny when he was younger. His Majesty requested that she come out of retirement to attend to you until an appropriate retainer can be found.”

Harry pursed his lips, “I see. I'm sorry to put you to such inconvenience,” he demurred.

“Royalty does not apologise, young man,” she scolded sharply, her expression shuttered with very familiar distaste.

Harry arched an eyebrow at her, fighting not to bristle, and from the corner of his eye he saw Cor's eyes almost shutter even as his wings twitched a little higher and flattened unhappily. He kept his mouth shut.

The stern woman sniffed, “His Royal Majesty is in talks with His Royal Highness at present. I am to show you to your rooms. This way,” she commanded coldly and marched off down the corridor.

Fuck Harry hated her already.

“Please try to bear with it until someone better can be found,” Cor whispered, ducking close as they turned to follow her.

“No fucking promises,” Harry growled back.

* * *

They were being given a month to help Harry settle into Insomnia before being sent back out on the road, it was likely he would be announced some time after that once he was in a position to handle the press and the public, as well as any of the duties that would be forced onto him.

Harry meanwhile was trying to deal with the third massive complete flip-around shake-up of his life. It was honestly getting to the point where there was getting to be very little that would shock him. Magic and wizards? Sure okay, he could deal with that. Another world entirely? Alright bit harder but he could deal with that. Sudden royalty? Oh for fuck's sake what now? There was no way he would actually have any kind of power over the throne in his current position but he wasn't exactly sure what they wanted of him really, he knew being royalty was not just doing whatever the hell you wanted despite what the newspapers liked to say. But he also knew that a Monarchy with a democratic parliament was a very different beast from a ruling Monarchy.

Madam Sterpis took him to a rather nice suite of rooms, introducing him to a pair of young ladies, both omega she stressed, who would be his maids.

“With the exception of myself and your immediate relatives and protection detail, no alphas will be permitted within these rooms. Are we clear?” she demanded.

Harry who was rapidly getting to the end of his rope with this woman glared at her, tempted oh so _tempted_ to tell her that he would choose who came and went from his room _thanks_. But part of him didn't want to lay claim to the space, didn't want to say it was his because that would mean he had taken space in this house and he owed them. He also didn't particularly want to kick up a fight about it.

“Crystal,” he grit out, watching with great dislike as she gestured at him to follow her.

“Breakfast will be at seven, sharp. You will sit down to eat. I will return at eight to assist you in dressing for the day. Your schedule has not yet been decided however I will not waste time in ensuring _appropriate_ behaviour for your station,” she sneered coldly, eyeing him with her nose in the air as if he were something attached to the bottom of her shoe. “Tomorrow the tailor will be here to obtain your measurements if Lord Armaugh has not already obtained them,” she declared briskly as she marched them through a dressing room larger than the living room at Number 4 Privet Drive and to a bathroom in the back, a huge affair with a separate walk in shower and a deep bathtub that he could have quite easily sat down in and had the water up to his ears if he wished. “You will use these facilities to bathe every day, if not, I will scrub you clean myself,” she warned.

Harry snapped his head around to scowl at her, “You touch me and I will snap your arm,” he warned. He would do no such thing but he would _definitely_ hit her with some manner of nasty removable curse.

Her seagull wings jutted upwards, “Do _not_ threaten me, young man,” she hissed.

Harry glared at her, “Who said it was a threat?” he demanded, equally unhappy.

Cor cleared his throat from the doorway, watching the matron with heavy eyes, “Madam Sterpis, in the interest of full disclosure, Harry has made clear his aversion of physical contact repeatedly and will react violently to ensure his boundaries are respected. I suggest you heed the verbal warning and keep your hands to yourself,” he interjected smoothly. Harry very well could have kissed him for the sour lemon expression it put on the woman's face.

“Who gave you permission to be in an omega's bedchambers?” she hissed.

The eagle winged teenager didn't even twitch an eyelid, “I am the assigned protection detail, madam. You did.”

“Well I am removing it. Get out,” she snapped.

“If you object to my presence, please lodge your disapproval with His Royal Highness Prince Regis and Shield Amacitia. Until I receive orders stating otherwise, I cannot acquiesce to your request,” he reported calmly, meeting the woman's furious scowl calmly as Harry had to turn away and bite his lower lip to hide the entirely inappropriate amusement bubbling within him. If the bitch saw him laughing at her then this unfortunate arrangement was only going to get _worse_.

* * *

His maids were Violet and Antiope, both omegas, and generally quite sweet actually. They would handle the general upkeep of his rooms and run whatever errands he asked of them while Madam Sterpis was to essentially tutor him in his royal duties and keep an eye on him until a proper Retainer could be found to take over the majority of the duties.

Blonde haired, blue eyed Violet with her orange and black wyandotte chicken wings, was the answer to why Sterpis seemed to hate him so much.

“She's old fashioned,” she explained once the foul tempered old woman was gone, leaving just the two girls, Harry, and Cor who was staying well clear of them and at the door like a good security detail (just in case the horrid woman burst back in).

Harry grimaced at the girl, “What do you mean, 'old fashioned'?” he asked darkly.

Antiope, dark haired and eyes, petite and delicate, with absolutely stunning fairy wren wings ruffled unhappily, “She has particular opinions about the behaviour and place of omegas in the world,” she explained stiffly and obviously unhappy. “One of the other maids told me that she managed to force one of the girls to leave when she got married because it was inappropriate for a married omega not to be in the home. One of _those_ sorts.”

Violet nodded, wringing her hands, “She's probably come to all sorts of horrid conclusions because you were on your own without a chaperone, and then had to travel in the company of five alphas, four of which weren't married.”

The Gryffindor stared at them for a long period of time before, “What part of 'hates physical contact' did she not get?” he asked rhetorically. “Fucking idiot.”

Cor snorted in amusement from the far wall, making the maids jump almost out of their skin.

“Oh! Oh no!” Violet squeaked.

“Calm down,” the eagle winged boy soothed, not moving from where he was leaning against the wall, “I won't say anything. Not unless she becomes a problem.”

Harry huffed, “She's already a problem,” he complained and received an amused glance from the other teenager.

“A problem you can't handle then,” he corrected easily enough. “You tamed a Dread King Bandersnatch, a pissy nanny with ideas above her station should be easy by comparison.”

Harry scoffed even as Antiope and Violet gasped, “Somehow I don't think I can bribe her with fish, Cor.” He paused to think about it, “Then again, she does have seagull wings.... maybe....”

The mental image of just launching a fish, SMACK, into her face was a very satisfying one.

* * *

The room he had been given was.... opulent, though he shouldn't have expected anything less from a Royal Suite, apparently. It was _technically_ five rooms as far as Harry was concerned, but according to the maids was actually only three. Apparently the livingroom sized dressing room did not count and was, in fact, just a '_closet_' that joined his bedroom to his bathroom.

The main room was a living room bedroom combination in shades of warm reddish woods, royal blues, gold, and black, it was all very lovely, and only compounded the distinct feeling that Harry wasn't allowed to sit anywhere despite both Violet and Antiope encouraging him and asking if he wanted anything or if he had anything to put away. He felt really awkward admitting that – no, he literally had nothing. They kind of dragged him away before he could get anything, or even return the tools he borrowed.

Harry honestly didn't know how to describe the room beyond 'fucking fancy as fuck'.

Just stepping in there was immediately a little antechamber cloak-room type situation, he assumed it was for the maids to greet any visitors? There was a fancy blue couch thing with an oval back and that weird plaster moulding design done in aged gold against one of the walls next to the front door so he could only _assume_. Oh, and this did not count as a room either, apparently. The little hallway itself had black walls with wide royal blue panels framed in aged gold mouldings, crystal lights made sure it looked tasteful and dignified instead of ominous or sinister. The end of the hall had a small round table with a large vase of silk flowers in shades of gold, blue, brown, and silver. He muttered to Violet about how that had to be hell to dust and the maid snorted hard enough to startle herself into hiccups, turning absolutely crimson as he laughed at her until she couldn't help but laugh as well.

The hall opened up into the sitting room which had a lovely thick plush dusty midnight blue carpet with faded pale gold baroque floral patterns across it, they looked like lilies or some other kind of bell-shaped flower. The walls matched what was in the corridor, charcoal black with midnight blue panels framed in gold, crystal-lights, but with white mouldings and a white ceiling bearing more of the same decorative mouldings he had seen in Aunt Petunia's pictures of Buckingham Palace and other fancy places. A large crystal chandelier hung from the ceiling above the small sitting area, two matching sofas from the hallway with oval backs and moulded heads in blue and gold, and now there were matching chairs for single people to sit. All of them clustered around a coffee table with golden moulded legs and a glass table, on it was a blue and gold vase with more flowers. The wall directly on his left walking in had four floor to ceiling warm red wood book-cases that framed a door set into the middle of the wall (that door was also framed by two side tables bearing yet more flowers). That door lead into his personal drawing room/office. Opposite the hall was he came in were four large floor to ceiling windows framed in long draping midnight blue heavy velvet curtains trimmed in gold, sheer white net-curtains covered the windows from view but were easily pulled aside to reveal the multi-panelled doors. There was no balcony, but they looked like they opened inwards and there was a small lip that one could comfortably stand on, very much like a balconette but without the railing.

His personal office/drawing room was smaller, it had a fireplace to the left as one walked in, another blue and gold sofa opposite on the otherside of a coffee table that matched the one outside, along the left wall were smaller windows, one of which had a reading knook built into it with bookcases on either side and huge thick cushions to sit on. Book-cases lined the other walls and against the far wall, facing towards the door, was a large desk and a narrow backed chair. Everything in warm red wood, and dusty midnight blue and gold. In here, there were no curtains or netting over the windows, it was wide and bright, with crystal lights on every wall to keep the room bright enough to read comfortably.

To the right of the living room was his bedroom up a few steps from the seating area. Yet more floor to ceiling windows were on the wall, and the bed itself was... _massive_. It looked like some kind of.... opulent four-poster _donut_. It was a raised bed, no space underneath though, with a deep dip in the middle, hence the donut comparison, with two posts that stretched up the ceiling in warm red coloured wood, from the ceiling draped more thick blue and gold curtains to enclose the whole thing. The donut itself was sink-your-hand-in-it-this-thing-will-_eat-_you soft, in the dip there were no blankets or bedding beyond clean white sheets but there were a _lot_ of pillows, all in blues, blacks, golds, bronze, and silvers, in various textures but all of them were soft and comfortable, some were huge and some were about the size of a regular bed-pillow, but he didn't see _anything_ smaller. There were even super long almost body pillow type things. He wasn't sure, but he didn't think any of them had removable pillowcases and that made him twitchy too.

There was a crystal light above his head, and one on each post of the bed and they could all be controlled individually if he wanted. On both sides of the donut against the wall were night-stands that could swing out and into his bed, allowing him to have access to anything on them without having to fuss about his bed hangings. To the right of his bed was a privacy screen of black featuring art nouveau style golden swirls, behind it was his changing room which was well lit and primarily in shades of gold with blue trimming in contrast to the rest of the room. There was hanging space on multiple walls, a floor to ceiling shoe-rack, a cupboard that pulled out to reveal a stand for about a _hundred_ different coloured ties, and another for scarves. Draws upon draws of jewellery ranging from rings, earrings, necklaces, wristwatches, circlets and tiaras (he looked at the girls in abject bewilderment but they didn't seem to notice, a glance at Cor had the eagle winged boy tapping his own wing, right where Harry's extra joint was. Okay, omega thing, right), and even light-weight chains and bracers and clips to decorate his _wings_.

“Oh, they're all the rage these days,” Antiope explained with a beaming smile, “With your skin and eye colour, gold would look lovely on your wings.”

“Rose-gold would be better, it's more softening and he'll need to make the best impression he can,” Violet objected as she indicated the even _more_ delicate red-gold jewellery that looked like it cost more than the annual income of the entirety of Grunnings completely.

“How about no? Because I don't have the money to replace it if I break it?” he drawled and carefully closed the draws with a shake of his head, ignoring the quiet snort of amusement from Cor in the background and the way the girls objected to the idea of him breaking something even as they tried to reassure him that it wouldn't cost that much to replace and no one would be angry.

There were no suits, or anything specific to him like shoes or underwear or even casual clothes, Violet reminded him that the tailor would be there to take his measurements tomorrow. But there were a couple of off-the-rack things set to one side to tide him over until then, silk nightclothes, and a single packet of each size of socks and underwear in black, as well as black slacks in multiple sizes and white button-up shirts in multiple sizes.

The bathroom was still incredible. The toilet was separate from the wash room and was.... well a toilet. It wasn't like it could get any fancier though they had certainly tried to make it more opulent with the black marble sink, moulded gold framed mirror, and the toilet. Nothing different there. A regular white shitter. The wash room was all in black marble and pale gold with white, the walk-in shower was set into the corner in a huge hexagon shape and had multiple showerheads and even nozzles from the ceiling, as well as a sunken in shelf full of various products already set aside for him along with one of those feather rakes that Cid showed him. The tub was much the same and involved taking a few steps up and then down. It was empty right now, but Harry could see the fact that it was actually a frickin' jacuzzi, and a really deep one at that. Set between the two washing facilities was a large basket filled shelf full of washclothes and towels, on the opposite wall was the long black marble counter top with two sinks, and a wall to wall mirror with lights hanging down from above and little power outlets here and there, one had a set of clippers plugged in waiting to go.

He shook his head as Violet and Antiope beamed at him, waiting for his assessment.

“It's lovely. I feel like I'll be told off just for being in here,” he admitted with a slightly self-depreciating laugh.

Violet nodded with an understanding smile, “I felt like that the first year I worked at the Citadel too. Don't worry, this is _your_ room. Maybe it'll feel more like home once you've made it your own?” she suggested cheerfully, shaking stray blond strands of hair from her face as her chicken wings ruffled behind her.

Antiope nodded, clutching onto her arm, “And when that awful alpha isn't in the picture – not you,” she added quickly looking at Cor apologetically, “You're lovely, Staff Sergeant.”

The eagle winged teenager smirked at them, “Thank you. I'll keep it in mind for later.”

She blushed darkly, “I take it back, you're terrible!” she squeaked and promptly hid her face in Violet's shoulder as the other girl laughed.

* * *

Weskham and Regis popped in next, Clarus kind of figured he wouldn't be welcome so was visiting his father instead, while Cid was talking to the King about something he wouldn't share with them (Harry was pretty sure it was about him, the parrot winged man had promised).

Weskham seemed to approve of the rooms though he did complain that they were a bit small, Harry just looked at him in dismal confusion until he blushed a little and apologised, explaining that Regis' rooms were twice the size. He laughed at the look of horror it prompted. He then went on to go and interrogate Violet and Antiope who went white at the sight of him and straightened their backs like soldiers facing a general, all they lacked was the salute.

Regis meanwhile was patiently waiting for Harry to approach him, which he did, eventually, sitting gingerly on one of the single person seats around the coffee table, feeling intimately (and insanely) like Aunt Petunia was going to come swooping out of nowhere shrieking about him sitting on the good furniture. When that didn't happen he relaxed minutely and glanced at the Prince to see him grinning hysterically at him.

“You are _really_ uncomfortable, aren't you?” he asked.

Harry bristled, “No shit Sherlock. I went from scratching around in mud to _literally_ a bedroom meant for royalty. Fuck you,” he snapped, hearing but ignoring the startled inhales from the girls and Weskham's long suffering sigh.

“Harry, please do not speak like that. It is incredibly impolite,” the Retainer begged.

“Eat me,” Harry retorted grumpily, folding his arms, “No one else is here, what's the problem.”

“Madam Sterpis'll crack your knuckles hard enough to bleed for a start,” Regis pointed out with a laugh.

“Is she always such a festering _bitch_ then?” he demanded harshly.

“She's not that bad,” Regis refuted in amusement. “Total hard ass but she's harmless.”

Cor grunted, “It nearly got violent,” he pointed out flatly, “If she can't handle her authority being challenged by an omega, she should be retired again.”

Regis blinked at him and sat up straight frowning, “Explain.”

Harry shrugged, “She threatened to scrub me in the bath-tub personally if I didn't maintain my personal hygiene, I told her I'd snap her arm if she touched me.”

“This was also after she dictated whom can and cannot enter these rooms,” Cor chimed in helpfully and incredibly unimpressed. “Word is she is of a particular traditionalist mindset that will clash _spectacularly_ with Harry in particular.”

Weskham groaned and dropped his face into his hands while the girls exchanged worried looks.

“Are you alright, Harry?” Regis asked, leaning forward, both wing and arm stretching out to touch him only to draw back before making contact.

He nodded, “I'll be fine. She reminds me of my Aunt but worse.”

“Will you manage being here, in Insomnia?” he prompted further.

The Gryffindor scoffed, glowering at him, “You didn't exactly give me much of a choice, Regis. I'll just have to make the best of it, like usual.” Like he had in the wizarding world when he learned about his unwanted fame, like he had when he learned about the Death Eaters still hunting him, like he had when Voldemort tried to choke him out, like he had when Cedric died and the Dark Lord rose, like he had when he became public enemy number one at the Ministry. He just had to roll with the punches and keep going. Like always. Make the best of a bad situation. If he was now royalty, that meant he had power to make change. That meant he could actually affect things, like maybe root out government corruption. Like preventing funding for police forces and education going somewhere else. Like making sure hospitals were properly staffed and funded.

Like look into this fucking business about omega rights.

His eyes strayed to both Violet and Antiope.

Yeah.

Like fuck was he leaving these people stuck in the 1950's.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This has apparently been the fic that's stopped me from writing for almost two weeks and I hate it. I don't even know where I'm going with this anymore, I think it wants to be some kind of '_okay Harry is going to actually do some royal shit let's see how this goes_'. 
> 
> So how do we feel about him being a social justice advocate and pushing for a lot of more modern thinking that hasn't yet come around? And develop technology and what not. Insomnia rn has technology on par with the 1970's. Mobile phones can't even text at this point. Phone call only.
> 
> Anyway. I hope I explained why Harry isn't being as much of a bastard as he can. On the one hand, path of least resistance, on the other, don't know where he currently stands, and on the final one this is what he does, what he's always done. Roll with the punches, take the shit hand and figure out how to use it/deal with it. So he's here in Insomnia, doesn't really have a choice about that without putting other people in danger. He's stuck in the citadel, he knows Royalty have shit to do and like fuck is he becoming an ornament. Nope, time to do shit.
> 
> So apparently there might be a Part 3 in the future - brain has already demanded timeskip to Post-Altissia which should be fun for some of the fuckery in my brain. OTL
> 
> let's just say, Madam Sterpis makes a big mistake and things go very badly for everyone. Especially her.


	16. Bahamut's Gift

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **WARNINGS:**
> 
> **Summary:** Bahamut gave his chosen line the ability to become dragons, and those blessed by the Kings would share in this power. Insomnia receives a message from Meldacio about a young black dragon in the Vesperpool

The message came to them via a Royal Guard dragon courier, the most secure form of communication in Lucis. Meaning whatever was written on that message was too sensitive to be risked via phone calls, too dangerous to be trusted to anyone in the army. It could have been anything from a letter telling Regis that their mission to Altissia was cancelled, to the location of a Tomb, or even word that the King was on his death bed and their return to Insomnia was expected.

It was, instead, a command to go immediately to Meldacio and contact the Auburnbrie family regarding their 'Guest'.

It was signed by His Royal Majesty King Mors, and stamped with the sigil of Bahamut, wings ascendant. Meaning this was an issue directly related to the royal family itself and should be given the highest priority.

Clarus took one look, dumped his half-eaten hotdog in the closest bin, and they all hustled to the car. Yes, they could have flown, but Meldacio was built within an enclosed valley, huge stone arches covering the small village and protecting it from aerial assault. It was once the fallback point for the Lucian army when they took the northern territories and battled the daemons that infested the Vesper. Which meant that even though they could have flown there themselves, there wouldn't be space for any of them, save Cid and _maybe_ Cor if he didn't mind running the risk of losing a few scales, to even land.

They drove quickly and reached the small hunter outpost before sundown, immediately heading to the flower covered wooden house belonging to the Auburnbrie family.

“'bout time y'all showed up,” Ezma Auburnbrie, the acting head of the Meldacio Hunters Organisation, declared imperiously. “I was beginnin' t'wonder if m'letter was intercepted.”

Ominous and not at all reassuring given the severity of what they were here for – and it had to be severe for His Majesty to demand it be their priority.

“Please explain the situation, Madam Auburnbrie,” Regis said, straightening his spine and drawing upon the years of training and the mantle of his birthright around himself.

The woman nodded, leaning back in her battered old armchair, reaching into the top breastpocket of her shirt and flicking three polaroid pictures onto the coffee table in front of them. “Showed up 'round two an'a half months ago in th'Vesper. Normally I'd be all fer reportin' a deserter, but it's bailed a number a'my hunters out'a a sticky situation, includin' my Davie, an' that made me hesitate. They're awful people shy but then m'sister got these. That's when I contacted yer Royal Majesty.” She gestured to the photographs on the table with a complicated look on her face. One picture showed a blurry dragon in flight, long and narrow wings and tail fins against a blue sky; another showed a blurry fight between a cockatrice and a black blur of fire, claws, and scales. And the final picture, clearest of the lot...

“Correct me if I'm wrong, yer Highness, but ain't _black_ an' _blue_ th'colours a'th'_Royal_ Dragons?” she asked, leaning forward to tap the image of a sleeping youngling, curled up in a patch of sunlight on a fishing pier, tail dangling off into the murky water of the Vesper, sunlight catching on blue-tinted midnight horns and the sapphire to midnight freckles across his shoulders and neck indicating his young age.

Clarus sucked in a sharp breath as he paled even as Cid hiccuped on a draconic hiss. Regis felt his throat close tight and hard as he stared down at the picture, feeling Cor beside him tense.

Weskham nodded to the woman in faint agreement as he collected the picture she indicated. Judging by his horns, the youngling in the image was a lad, possibly Cor's age or definitely closer to it than Regis'. But he was less than half the size he should have been as a Child of Bahamut; standing up, Weskham would have assumed he would be about eye-level with the youngling's shoulder as a human. At Cor's age, Weskham would have been human eye-level with Regis' elbow as a dragon. Likely.... likely it was due to malnutrition or some such. The poor thing was all scale and bone, painfully thin, even his scales looked dry and dull in the photograph. On his forehead was a nasty bone-deep scar in a jagged lightning bolt shape, and across his body was evidence of other violence, either committed on him as an infant for their scales were soft and easily cut, or distressingly lethal if it managed to break through dragon scale in his teens when their scales hardened. Up one hindleg was evidence of mauling or some kind of trap tearing deep vertical furrows through black scales, and on the back of a forehand were _words_, too small to make out on the tiny photograph, but undeniably _there_.

Hopefully Clarus wouldn't see those until much later. The Amacitia Shield Dragons reacted _very_ poorly to any harm, real or perceived, upon the Lucis Caelum dragons. Regis remembered his childhood under Uncle Dianthus' gimlet over-protective eye before Clarus was old enough to take the vows and have his dragon form bestowed on him by the King.

Weskham handed the photograph to Regis, feeling strangely restless and quivery inside. Adrenaline, he realised almost absently as he listened to Cid demand the location of the youngling from Madam Auburnbrie. A side-effect, he decided, of the vows that gave him his own dragon form. There was a _young_, _injured_, and _alone_, Lucis Caelum still with his childhood freckling out there in the wild, and right now he wanted nothing more than to wriggle out of his own skin and take flight and _find_ the youngling and – he took a deep breath and swallowed his baser impulses down.

Jumping the youngling would do absolutely no good to anyone, least of all him. Cid had been draconic longer than Regis had been alive, he was handling this revelation both better and worse than everyone else, it would be his lead they had to follow for now. None of them had clear heads right now. Least of all Regis and Cor, the latter of whom being the youngest and least used to his instincts and the vow screeching in discordant fury and protectiveness, and Regis who had always been the baby of the flock and was now faced with a youngling who could very well be a cousin or a younger brother.

They moved quickly as soon as Cid got all the information he deemed important, taking the photographs with them and heading immediately for the Regalia. They would drive it to the Vesper and take to the air as soon as it was parked to find the youngling.

Hopefully they wouldn't be too late.

Any dragon in the wild was considered fair game if they didn't wear the Lucian standard, either considered traitors to the crown as deserter Royal Guard, or wild beasts to be put down. Despite the worship of Bahamut, the majority of the population rarely could tell the difference between wild-dragon and Royal Guard without the latter wearing a harness. And Niflheim paid handsomely for any and all dragon skulls presented to them, be they Guard or wild.

They – may have broken the law of road decency and sped their way there at double the politely considered forty miles per hour, and Weskham performed what was possibly one of the more _harrowing_ hairpin turns of their journey together, but it took them onto the off-road track where they crunched to a stop. Taking just enough time for everyone to get out of the car before Cid ran three paces and launched himself into the sky, body rippling backwards in exploding blue-white crystal shards even as his smokey grey and green draconic form burst forward with a powerful pump of dappled slightly raggedy scarred wings took him up.

The rest of them quickly followed suit.

Smokey grey fourteen foot Cid, iridescent green patterning his neck and belly like mother of pearl, sun-dappled silver stretching across his back and wings, he looked like living stone at times, his scales thick and craggy with age and war, his talons were larger than most dragons', heavy, almost shovel like, but fine-boned and more dexterous than expected. His face was blunt and wide, horns curling around his skull almost akin to that of a ram's, perfect for headbutting – which he was known to have done in the past. Once even headbutting a Niflheim airship out of the sky when it attempted to come up on Regis' tail at the beginning of their pilgrimage.

Vivid bronze, copper, and gold twenty-foot Cor, his scales gleaming so many fiery shades it was impossible to tell which colour was his true one, he was built strong with a deep chest and powerful shoulders with broad wings armed with talons at the joint with wicked looking scythe-like claws. His face was remarkably canine with an impressive rack of horns that delicately followed the line of his jaw in smaller spikes and down the centre of his back to end the tip of his tail in a vicious pike-like tail bone that they had seen impale daemons, fiends, and even punch through airship armour before. Not unlike the stinger of a Reapertail.

Shimmering green and purple twenty-three foot Weskham, long and elegant, shades of jade and emerald mottling his back and wings in dizzying swirling patterns, his throat, belly, and the underside of his wings shimmering violet in much the same way a humming bird's throat would. His face was long and narrow, his two horns swept back and long, dark and sheened purple much like his underwing, and his face uncharacteristically adorned with a pale jade-green frill at his jaw. His scales were small and fine, narrow and leaf-shaped with dark green ridges that ended in small barbs. After Cid, he was the smallest of them for his age and his wings were of the narrower variety, allowing him to perform acrobatic stunts the others couldn't replicate – for all that Cor most definitely tried (and then went tumbling out of the air and needing to be caught, much to his chagrin).

At thirty four feet, Regis was over twice the size of Cid and a sleek, obsidian black. The Lucis Caelum dragons were all of the same lean elegant build, long, gently curving thick horns that looked midnight blue and black but would glow with blinding blue-white light when they called upon the Draconian's magic. Their scales were finer than most, small and broad-leaf shaped but without ridges, more akin to that of a serpent's scales but as hard as diamond. And then there was the tail fin that so many other dragons lacked, not unlike a fish tail on some of the Lucis Caelums' it acted in much the same way, allowing them greater agility in the air. For Regis, his tail fins were both wider and darker than his father's, stiffer, and he had developed a habit of draping it over his face when napping out in the sun.

Clarus was the largest of them, forty feet tall from horn-tip to toe. And he was every inch an imposing beast, more than doing justice to his ancestral title of Shield Dragon. His scales were huge, ironically shaped like a jagged heater shield and a dark earth brown shot through with vivid magma red, making him look like some kind of living volcano. An image made even more intimidating by the heavy jutting tusks from his lower jaw and the crown of horns that lined his head and neck like a lion's mane. His wings were broad and a little stubby by comparison to the others, he wasn't made for speedy or even long distance flight, too large and heavy. Even his tail was short and thick compared to theirs, it was wide and didn't taper at all, and ended in an almost square like stub, armoured like the rest of him, but tipped with four talon-like spikes that they had seen physically scoop and bat airships out of the sky like a third thumbless hand.

They circled the whole valley twice before Cor warbled a sighting, signing for them to look at the dock behind the ruins.

There was a small grassy patch, far too small for either Regis or Clarus to land in, it was barely big enough for Cor. But curled up in a small sundappled patch of grass and flowers, was the youngling, fast asleep.

Given the size of the little clearing, only one of them was going to be able to land in there with the kid, which meant Cor and Cid were going to have to cling to the cliff-faces as the only one of the smaller dragons able to, while Weskham landed in the clearing, practically on top of the kid, because he didn't have the claws for it. Regis would be going to Wesk, he needed to be there to calm his flockmate down so, it meant that they would be going human for now. Clarus angled himself above Cid, and changed back, dropping down onto the grumpy old bastard's back hard enough to bruise his ass as he grabbed hold of craggy horns and scales so as to avoid a dunk in the lake below. Regis following suit to land on Weskham's back ahead of them.

The sound of Cid and Cor landing on the cliffs was, unfortunately, enough to wake the youngling before Weskham could land and box him in.

Clarus had never seen a dragon move so fast.

He was _out_.

One look up, and then his tail was around, his head went down and his shoulders up, and he dove almost _gracefully_ between Weskham's legs and head first into the lake before the finned dragon could stop him.

He squawked, latching onto Cid's back with a curse as the cranky old bastard leapt from the cliff face, chasing the black shadow under the water, only for a small swish of liquid, it vanished.

“Do you see him?!” Regis shouted from Weskham's back as they flew past.

“No! Dived down too deep!” he called, casting around the lake sides. There was no way he could stay under for very lung at his size, he barely had the lung-capacity for sustained flight at his size, no way he'd have it for deep water diving, not like Wesk.

“I'm coming over!” the Prince shouted, and a moment later he was sliding down Weskham's wing to land beside him, stumbling into his grasp with only a little bit of a slip as their more aquatically inclined companion dove into the lake below.

And startled their young quarry out of it on the far side of the lake, the youngling bursting free with a spin that shook off the majority of the water on him before he was up and flying towards lake Catalan, Cor springing off after him. Regis threw himself off Cid and changed, taking off after them while Clarus hunkered down and clung on tight – if this was going to be a highspeed chase, he would have to stay human and stick to the others, because he would only get left behind.

It did however give him _front row_ seats to seeing _all three of them_, Weskham (once he surfaced), Regis, and Cor get tied into aerial _knots_ as the little youngling flew circles around them. Shooting upwards with a neat flick of his tail, looping over Cor, and grabbing his tail on the way down, making the larger dragon squawk and tumble before he twisted out of Regis' way and zig-zagged under Weskham, going up just enough to bump the retainer and send him careening into Regis as they both tried to scramble around after him.

Then he went up, and up, and up, and _up_ – way up high to where things like _size_ and _weight_ meant a hell of a lot more. Cor hot on his tail falling steadily behind him as he puffed and wheezed, unable to draw enough air into his lungs.

Clarus would have been impressed.... his his heart hadn't so firmly lodged itself in the back of his throat as the youngling flipped over, tucked his wings in, and dropped like a fucking stone. Lancing down past Cor who roared in alarm and had to jink to the side or risk a bone-breaking collision. He scattered both Regis and Weskham, and Clarus could feel Cid pumping his wings harder, speeding up, aiming to catch the youngling before he hit the ground, only for an almost _contemptuously casual_ flick of both tail and wing, he swept out of the dive in a sharp curve –

that took him directly into the thick canopied Myrlwood forest and its many narrow canyons, and sent Cid almost headfirst into the ruins of an ancient farmhouse.

Cor signed an irritable insult at them all that Cid was more than happy to return before Weskham rumbled a warning and signed his own idea to box the youngling in. They needed to _pin_ him down long enough for Regis to get close enough to talk him down, he was still young enough that the flock bond would be active. Though why he hadn't already sensed it and calmed the fuck down was anyone's guess. Lucis Caelums' were born human, but they always retained the ability to transform in times of great danger. Some more magically precocious children could transform at their leisure and would do so often in order to drive their minders to grey hair and early retirement (try telling a twenty three foot teenager to go to their room). To that end, if a transformation occurred too young, there was always the flock bond which was specifically so that young children would know what dragons around them were safe to be with. The bond always reacted best with blood relatives but would fade once the youngling grew old enough (the enough was always up in the air, Mors admitted his bond went quiet in his mid-teens while his father's had been active well into his thirties, and Regis' own had only recently begun to fade in his early twenties).

This youngling still had his sun-spots. His flock bond would not have faded just yet.

Cor signed at them to wait a moment and flew a quick lap of the wood before returning and signing the terrain.

One tomb, deep in. Then a waterfall with a haven. Both were connected by a single narrow canyon, large enough for the youngling and Cid. Then there was the forest. Large space, big enough for Clarus to land in, but he would destroy a lot of it. There was also the forested canyon leading back out. The canopy was thick, too thick to fly out of unless the youngling wanted to risk damaging his wings. It would be their best shot.

Cid draws him into the narrow area, Clarus lands in the forest, Cor in front, Weskham overhead, and Regis tries to talk him down.

It was the best plan they had, so they agreed and broke up.

It did not go to plan.

Cid got the youngling into the canyon as they planned, Clarus blocked his escape from behind, Cor parked himself at the front – but instead of giving Regis and Weskham a chance to get down to talk to him, he charged directly at Cor, horns glowing with magic and a snarl curling back to reveal impressive fangs.

But instead of attacking him, the kid turned on a _gil_, using their surprise and Cor's bracing himself to ping-pong himself up the cliff-face walls and out through the canopy before Weskham or Regis could reach him.

And yes.

He did tear his wings in the process, the smell of fresh blood lingering in the air as he threw himself into the air and sped off.

They yet again piled after him. He _had_ to be getting tired by now (they fucking were).

His wings tucked in and he swept into the clearing he'd been napping in earlier, landing hard and stumbling, panting hard, and vanishing into the tree line.

Cor landed first, stumbling down into his human form and chasing after the youngling to give them all space to land, Regis next with Weskham, Cid, and Clarus bringing up the rear as they followed the faint smell of blood to – a crack leading into the ruins, into Steyliff Grove which, according to the Auburnbrie sisters, was a daemon nest.

And they could _see_ the youngling had managed to scrabble his way inside, there was fresh blood on the stones and dislodged scales.

“Why isn't he stopping?” Cor demanded, breathing hard as he looked at them in distress.

Regis shook his head worriedly, “He should be sensing the flock bond unless..... unless he's too scared to? Or maybe he's learned not to trust it?” he wondered unhappily, biting his lip. “Either way, he's gone in there, and he's hurt. We need to find him. The sisters said the doors will remain shut until nightfall so unless he comes back this way there's no way out.”

“Someone ought to stay here in order to prevent him from leaving again,” Weskham pointed out, wheezing a little as he tried to catch his breath.

Clarus heaved, “Kid, you got this?” he asked, looking at Cor. The teenager nodded seriously, knowing that Clarus was asking him to take over Shield duties for as long as he stayed out here to block the exit. Cid would have normally done so, but he was one of the smallest dragons and a distance fighter, making him the more logical choice to go in.

They took a few minutes to catch their breath and headed into the darkness, getting their lights affixed as they stepped out into an abandoned stone chamber. The floor was filled with scratches and evidence of prior visits from their young friend in the various scales left behind, some of them now aged and grey, others fresh and still retaining their obsidian black gleam. There was now just the occasional drip of blood on the floor.

Cor too the lead, following the occasional dribble of blood through eeriely silent hallways until they reached a huge open chamber filled with lazily drifting sunbeams through water.

“Well,” Regis breathed in awe, “The text books certainly do not do the Grove of the Tidemother _any_ justice,” he decided as he looked around the majestic chamber.

“There's no staircase, but we can climb down on those roots there,” Cor said, pointing to the corner of the chamber where huge mangrove roots that would have looked more at home elsewhere in the world had spilled in through the ceiling to occupy an entire half of the chamber's three story wall. There was no sign of the youngling save a scattering of black scales on the ground, and a fresh red streak where it looked like he had landed badly.

“Did the damage look bad?” Weskham asked worriedly as they reached the large smear across the stone floor.

Cor shook his head as he knelt down, “No, nothing went through and through or he wouldn't have been able to fly at all. Just a couple of cuts to the outer membrane. You know how much wing-injuries bleed,” he reminded them. Much like head injuries, wing-injuries were always ten times bloodier and more dramatic looking than they actually were because of how delicate they were. He traced the smear and examined a couple of the scales before looking around again, “He should be over here....” he decided, heading towards the stairs beneath the roots.

And then something that most _certainly_ was not draconic shrieked at themselves

“Oh hell!” Cid cursed, summoning his lance, “Ain't that Auburnbrie's pet quetzacoatl, or however y'all say it?!”

The huge winged fiend landed in front of them with a screech – and then _screamed_ as a small black blur landed on its back.

Cor swore as the tiny dragon lit up blue-white with magic, horns, claws, and markings as he clawed and sank his teeth him, breathing fire and ice out on the fiend as lightning crackled around them. He shoved Regis at Weskham and Cid and threw himself into the fight – Clarus handed off his Shield duties while they were in here, that meant _both_ of the Lucis Caelums' were under his purview! And Regis would be fine with Weskham and Cid, this kid wouldn't!

He slammed into the 'coatl with a roar, and everything dissolved into a whirlwind of claws, teeth, and magic that ended when he got his jaws around the fiend's throat and snapped its neck harshly in one vicious twist.

He dropped it, circling around to where the youngling was hissing and spitting as it wriggled out from under a fallen limb and nosed him, he didn't smell any fresh blood but – he got an irritated hiss and a half-hearted swipe of claws across the nose for his effort. He snorted, jerking his head back and wriggling his nose, he hadn't even _attempted_ to claw scales, if anything it was more akin to the slap of a cat's paw telling him to fuck off.

He nosed at the smaller dragon again, and got a slap with his tail and a warning growl.

“Are you alright?!” Regis called, scrambling over from the far side of the hall.

Cor nodded, signing that he had a few scratches on his thighs but was fine, the little Prince had a bad foreleg though. The small black dragon was looking between them with a tilted head and, now that things had calmed down and they were actually close enough to look at him properly, the most stunning green eyes Cor had ever seen on anyone, dragon or human. He was.... roughly the size of a fairly large mesmir, but as Weskham observed back in the house, all skin and scales, he was painfully thin and it was easy to see the bones in his hindquarters and the ridges of his spine. His scales were dull and cracked in places, very dry and despite being clean he was obviously ungroomed and uncared for.

“Please, wait, we don't mean you any harm,” Regis begged when the smaller dragon began to try and limp off, taking a step forward and trying to touch him.

The youngling skittered backwards and growled at him, green eyes slitting in warning.

“No, no, wait, please. You're hurt, just, let me heal that and – and we'll talk, yes? Could you change back, please? No harm will befall you, you have my word,” he promised solemnly, hand on heart.

The youngling hissed at him unhappily, shaking his head and stalking off.

“No! Please wait!” Regis called, running after him, magic sparked on his fingertips but the youngling suddenly jumped, leaping to the far end of the chamber and up the stairs despite his limp making him stumble, and then he vanished into a... a hole in the far wall on the left.

“Regis?” Weskham prompted in concern when the dark haired man just stood there, hand slowly lowering in heart broken silence.

“His – his flock bond, Wesk, it – it's been _burnt_ out of him,” the Prince explained, voice cracking and wobbling.

Looks were exchanged between the three other men.

“An'.... what's that mean fer th'kid?” Cid prompted further with a dark tone of voice.

Regis' voice shook as he inhaled, “It means – it means that he can't trust _anyone_. It means someone that should have protected him _hurt_ him. In a very.... very intimate way. It means I can't reach out to him through the bond, and that if I tried, he would automatically feel as though it were an attack.” He dropped his face into his hands and took a deep breath, “It felt like – it felt like _old_ pain. Ongoing, constant, from a young age.”

Cid hissed and there was a visible ripple of magic from Weskham.

Cor sighed and waded past the lot of them in annoyance. So the kid got abused and didn't trust the flock bond. That was definitely sad, and tragic, and it meant things were a lot more difficult going forward, but not _impossible_. The kid was alive, he might be a little worse for wear, but he hadn't given up, and he clearly hadn't become an unfeeling bastard if he jumped in to protect them from that 'coatl the way he did. Even his behaviour afterwards had been the mild 'don't fucking touch me' attitude of a guy who was tired and just wanted to go bed.

He eyed the hole in the wall thoughtfully, nope, no way he was fitting in there as he currently was. But he also got the feeling that if he went in there as a human it wouldn't do him an awful lot of good.

He huffed again and changed back, ignoring the others as he stepped into the surprisingly large chamber and changed back, crawling awkwardly forward in the now _uncomfortably_ small space until he was nose to nose with the black dragon who _had_ been curled up in the corner, and was now sat up and semi-reared back in utter disgust to have his personal space intruded upon.

“Cor?” Regis called from outside, the sound of his footsteps coming closer.

He shifted his ass with a little difficulty, and blocked the opening off, hearing his Prince splutter in disbelief outside.

It got the desired reaction though.

The black dragon made that familiar odd hiccuping chirp that passed for laughter in his flock. He huffed a breath out as the smaller dragon startled at the noise he just made and then hissed at him in embarrassment. He nosed at the kid again, trying to get a better look at his injured leg, and received another irritated swat for his efforts as the smaller dragon tried to back up but found a wall in the way.

“Cor! What are you doing?” Regis called, slapping his ass and Cor grumbled. He was definitely going to put shaving foam in his hand when they camped out tonight.

The smaller dragon pushed at his head with a grumble, and he backed up a little, letting him have his space again. There wasn't an awful lot of space in the tiny chamber, Cor was taking up most of it being considerably bigger, he couldn't even sit up in here, hell, the other dragon couldn't either, his horns scraped on the ceiling too.

He warbled a query, twitching a wing in and out, and huffing at him a little.

The smaller dragon looked confused for a moment before stretching out his own wing, revealing the long shallow scratches and grazes in midnight blue dappled black membrane. They were _filthy_. Cor groaned to see them in such a state. They were _definitely_ going to need an antidote treatment before they saw any potions. Maybe even a remedy if this was going to take as long as they thought it would.

Unless....

It was actually gross, but he'd put worse things in his mouth for lesser causes.

He moved far faster than something his size had any right to in such a small space, one wing-talon pinned the outstretched wing down while one of his foreclaws got the Lucis Caelum pinned by the spine. The startled, furious snarling shriek and charmingly named 'death rattle' growl was to be expected, but clearly the kid hadn't expected him to start licking at the scratches on his wing if the utterly bewildered warbling hiss he gave was any indication. He also didn't appreciate it judging by the squirming.

Cor wasn't particularly keen on it either, he did not enjoy the taste of blood and mud, thanks. But they needed to be clean sooner rather than later.

He was going to go through so much mouthwash later tonight. _So. Much._

He managed to get the other wing open but it was fine, a few grazes but nothing that would warrant a tongue bath. A quick inspection of the rest of the dragon's body showed only a few scratches here and there, and he cleaned those up to, despite the grumbling protests and attempts to squirm away. There was nothing that could be done about the arm though, no blood, no open wounds, he'd either done something to the muscle, or the bone, but without being able to communicate there was no way to find out.

“Cor?” That was Clarus' voice. “Is the little guy willing to let someone in to talk?” he asked.

A quick glance at the smaller dragon had him shake his head, and he rumbled a negative.

“Is he hurt?” He made a high-low noise, the kid was so-so but it didn't seem serious. “Does he know how to change _back_?”

Cor looked at the smaller dragon in slight confusion. Surely he did.... Green eyes peered up at him and then he slowly shook his head.

He rumbled a negative, and there was a long silence before he felt the Shield give his ass a small shove. “See if you can't reassure the kid. Regis'll have to teach him how to change back since none of us had to learn.” And wasn't that the bitch. Their forms were a gift from the King, it came pre-packaged with instinct on how to change back, the Lucis Caelums' were born with the form and had to _learn_ how to change between them like they learned how to walk and talk.

He eyed the smaller dragon and wondered if the burnt flock bond was why he didn't know how to change back – that there was no one to teach him, because as shitty as he knew some families could be, the Lucis Caelums' kind of had parenting hardwired into them via draconic form. No way his own family would have harmed him, they'd sooner chew off their own wings.

He wondered if he'd ever seen another dragon shifter, as the smaller male tentatively limped closer to investigate him, he paused repeatedly, watching him warily as if concerned that he would snap at him for getting too close. Cor just blinked slowly at him and stayed very still, letting the youngling explore at his own pace even as he studied him carefully in return. Despite his small stature and skinniness, he was _surprisingly_ well muscled across the shoulders, wings, and legs, the formation of his horns and back suggested that they were roughly the same age, despite the dappling across the guy's shoulders indicating that he was probably younger.

He'd probably have a baby-face when he retained human form.

He would also be dangerously underweight but wiry. Like.... the average musclemass of an alleycat.

He would also probably have the prettiest damn eyes too, judging by how they looked as a dragon.

Cor huffed and nosed at him again, flexing his claws on the soft dirt beneath them. He got another hiss, but no swat. And then, even more surprisingly, the smaller dragon ducked under one of his wings and curled up – oh, he was _cold!_

Far, far too cold. Cor rumbled in worry, drawing his tail around him and curling his head around him too, shifting his wing a bit better. Was it a sign of how malnourished he was? How tired? Could it have been shock from whatever was wrong with his arm? He didn't know, and they couldn't exactly communicate.

The Lucis Caelum made a quiet noise similar to when Regis tried to reassure them, and tucked his head against the curve of his jaw and neck.

...Did he just go to sleep?

Cheeky shit!

Cor grumbled but decided against moving or changing back, at least for now. He'd let the other dragon warm up a bit more, rest a bit, and then he would insist on going out and talking to Regis at the very least, learn how to change back so they could get a name.

* * *

He didn't know when he fell asleep, but he woke up slowly and surprisingly content given that he rarely slept in dragon form. He also realised that he wasn't alone and the smaller dragon was awake and watching him with a surprisingly judgemental glower – under him.

At some point while they slept, Cor had practically crawled on top of the smaller dragon, caging him in with a foreleg across his back.

Whoops.

He groaned an apology and shuffled uncomfortably away, god it was still uncomfortably cramped in here.

He got a quiet huff from the smaller dragon and a hesitant touch of the nose before he backed away and made a shooing gesture towards the hole in the wall.

Oh thank fuck.

Cor changed back, stretching with a grateful moan.

“There is no way this room is big enough for me,” he complained, stretching hard enough that his back, neck, shoulders, and even his _hips_ popped. The dragon warbled in pointed surprise and dismay and he shrugged, “I don't get it either. I guess your dragon form is smaller because you didn't eat a lot as a kid? Though it doesn't explain Cid being so tiny,” he admitted with a shrug. “Come on, Regis will be able to teach you to change back. Pretty sure Weskham already plans to cook you so much food you'll end up waddling back home.”

The dragon paused but hesitantly followed him out at the sound of that promise.

A bit unexpectedly, the Retinue were still there, and they were all in their dragon forms, sprawled out on top of each other across the chamber's floor. Clarus occupying the end where the huge staircase lead up into the ruin properly. His massively armoured body physically impenetrable to even an Iron Giant's sword swings. Regis was actually the closest to them, and he jerked up as soon as they came out, making the smaller dragon chirp in surprise.

He must not have seen Regis' dragon form earlier he was too busy trying to escape, because now the similarity was painfully obvious and even the youngling could see it if the uncertain shifting of his weight was an indication.

He gestured to the Prince, “Yeah, that's Regis. He'll be able to teach you how to change back.”

The smaller dragon looked at him, and then at Regis, before back at him and then slowly making his way over to the larger black dragon.

He looked as though he were one ill-timed sneeze away from taking flight as Regis bent forward and started to snuff at him. They'd clearly rehearsed this while the two of them were napping because he could see the others were awake, watching through barely cracked eyelids, as Regis behaved in a decidedly unprincely manner, sniffing and nosing and nudging his smaller semi-copy.

Before actively purring, making a whistling chirp sound, and then licking him.

The smaller dragon made a startled noise and then a yelp as Regis practically pinned him down and started giving him a tongue bath of all things.

Cor smacked a hand to his forehead as Weskham sat up with a bark of disapproval and Clarus rumbled in amusement. Cid just huffed and signed a what did you expect they're related and he's a baby. He then kept signing and both Weskham and Clarus coughed in amusement while Cor laughed. Apparently this was exactly the same thing that King Mors had done as a dragon the first time Regis transformed. It was a Lucis Caelum thing.

The Prince certainly seemed pleased about it, nuzzling and rubbing against the grumpy smaller dragon who tried to push and swat him away even as he chirped and grumbled. He still kept his claws to himself, so in all, it ended up looking more like a mother cat giving her kitten a tongue bath than a pair of dragons who had just met.

He coughed a little, “You – going to teach him how to turn back into a human, or keep drowning him in saliva?” he asked his prince in amusement. True, he'd licked the guy as well, but that was literally to make sure he didn't get any infections. Not to rub his scent all over his 'baby'.

Regis changed back, face sunset red. “Ah, yes, of course, do forgive me,” he blurted, “Yes, first thing is first. You can access the magicks yes? The same magic that makes your horns glow,” he explained, watching as the youngling nodded and demonstrated. “Yes, exactly that. Now. You must fold it up as small as you can within you, into a human shape. You know what you look like as a human. Fill your whole body with magic, and then fold it up into your human form. It will likely take some time before – ”

His form wavered, crystals flaking off his hide and cutting Regis off in astonishment. His whole body shrank a little only for there to be a sound like shattering glass and the young dragon was back, panting, and looking a little greyer than before. He grumbled, and nosed at his injured arm.

“Ah. The arm. May I take a look at it? The pain may be interfering with the change,” the Prince requested.

The young dragon nodded and sat down, holding his arm out and looking over to the other three, tilting his head curiously only to squawk and yelp, jumping backwards like a startled cat as Regis shattered an elixer across his arm. His whole arm improved, the swelling that Cor hadn't noticed went down, his scales were suddenly black and sleek and healthy looking with a metallic blue-green sheen to them, not unlike mother of pearl.

“There. Try again,” the Prince suggested with a grin as he stepped back, “That should have replenished your magic as well.”

The dragon warbled and chirped at him, his green eyes somehow even brighter and more vivid now as well which..... was surprisingly cute. He was almost looking forward to seeing how this guy looked as a human because those eyes were lovely.

There was once again visible crystal-flaking, and then he shrank, rapidly. And staggered as the blue-white crystal shards shattered around him, revealing a human form.

Tiny, wearing oversized jeans and a t-shirt, practically _rags_, with messy black hair, glasses, he toppled almost directly into Regis' arms wheezing and shaking.

“There we are, there we are, welcome back,” the Prince soothed, grinning wildly even as the rest of the Retinue regained their human forms and rushed over, staying back a little bit so as not to crowd the other teenager as he looked up and – oh, oh he _was_ cute. Cor felt himself turning a little pink at that face, and those _eyes_. The glasses had to go though.

The boy examined himself, laughing shakily as he held his arms out.

“Holy shit, I thought I'd be stuck like that forever,” he gasped in a shaky Tenebraean accent.

Regis laughed, nuzzling into his hair, “I'm sure you would have figured it out eventually.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was actually supposed to be the 5th of these AUs, I started it, but never finished it. And I still haven't, I got this far and went 'fuck it', so here it is. Don't ask me what's going on, I haven't a clue lmao


	17. Flock Together 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **WARNINGS:** Mentioned sexism, mentioned sexual assault, mentioned forced body modification, depression, mentioned suicidal desire, character redemption, character development, politics, corruption

Failure.

An utter, miserable, _failure_.

Cor didn't sigh, too disciplined for that, as they hitchhiked their way back to Insomnia after their abysmal _failure_ to secure support from Accordo in the war. Three years they had worked with the Altissian resistance to free its trade routes and ports from the strangle-hold that Niflheim had on it. But their magitek infantry production had improved rapidly, too rapidly, and the sheer numbers they were able to bring to bear in an encounter grew too much for them to face on their own. Accordo did not have an army, its resistance members were comprised of civilians, teenagers, shopkeepers, teachers, streetcleaners, bartenders, anyone and everyone with a chip on their shoulder and a will to fight. They made their own weapons out of oars and fishing pikes, armour out of repurposed rubbish bins, and bombs from cleaning solution and basement distilleries, they held meeting in damp algae covered boat-houses and derelict hotels marked for collapse. They did their best with the resources they had, trained several of the better ones whenever they could in whatever they could, but it just wasn't enough, and in the end their safe house was discovered, and Weskham was crippled in their escape.

Crippled to the point where he wouldn't have survived the return trip to Lucis.

The resistance took him and secured their escape route back to Cape Caem, told them to flee, told them to keep fighting. Because if Regis died, then Lucis died with him, along with all hope of fighting the Imperial desire for complete world domination.

Three years.

Wasted.

Regis was despondent. Clarus was furious – at himself, at Regis, at Niflheim, at Accordo, at everyone and everything. Both he and Cid were doing their best to keep their shit together until they reached the Crown City, making sure they kept safe, hidden, and at least had something hot to eat when they made camp. When they met the Royal Guard at Cape Caem three years ago, they boarded the royal vessel to sail off, and the guard took the Regalia back to Insomnia. Because of the hasty nature of their return, no one was waiting for them, they needed to head home on their own.

No car, no Weskham, no alliance.

No matter how used to the taste of disgrace he was, it still sat bitter on his tongue.

* * *

They passed through the Leide border checkpoint with ease, their passports checked, the Prince bowed and scraped to, one of them brought out their truck to drive them to the Wall. They were too tired to demure and gratefully accepted the journey, thankfully the border guard was a relatively older alpha woman who took one look at the bags under their eyes and told them to get some rest while she drove them home. Cid muttered something about kissing her as he climbed into the front seat and she handed him her jacket to use as a pillow.

Tyberius Scientia was waiting for them at the gate, escort cars arranged neatly, an appropriate limo idling ready for them. His hair was a little more grey, there were a few faint lines around his eyes now, and there was a scar across one cheek, but he smiled all the same to see them. A smile that slipped a little when his headcount drew one short as they climbed out of the border-control truck. He was quick to paste it back on before he opened the limo doors for them.

He did not ask where Weskham was.

They dozed on and off, tiredly watching the city pass them by on their way to the Citadel.

“The city looks well,” Regis observed quietly, his voice thick with exhaustion but touched ever so slightly with relief and happiness. He eyed the new fashions on display (slit sleeves with differently coloured undersleeves seemed to be incredibly popular amongst the omega population), the happy families with their little fledgelings as they jumped around a milkshake bar, teenage girls with shopping bags arm in arm laughing as they walked down the street, the tips of their wings dyed bright garish colours. This was why they fought Niflheim. These people, those families, their smiles, their happiness, their _safety_. This was why he fought.

“Indeed,” Tyberius agreed, “There have been a number of changes in your absence, Your Highness.”

“The fashions have certainly changed,” he laughed as they drove past Amaryllis, the 'high society' boutique shopping centre that he recalled always selling affordable copies of outfits his mother used to wear. Even his outfits at a few of the festivals had been featured in those shop windows. Now they displayed more of those double-sleeved tops that seemed to be all the rage, as well as several other outfits that seemed to have spawned similar fashion trends throughout the city now that he'd seen them. Long sleeves were definitely in.

“For the better,” Clarus noted approvingly, studying a pair of women as they passed, one alpha and one omega, both of them wearing _backless_ high-collared tops, the skin between their struts bare along with most of their lower backs and their bra straps.

Tyberius coughed a little in amusement while Cid grumbled about idiot children and their damn hormones.

Cor was with Clarus on this one, he was fully supported this new fashion trend he decided as they drove past an alpha male wearing a similar backless and sleeveless grey shirt as he hauled crates into the back of his car. Back muscles rippling as he moved.

Nice.

* * *

The King was waiting for them as they drove through the front gates of the Citadel, he must have been called the moment they arrived at the Wall. Several Royal Guard flanked him, and stood just behind was....

Cor felt his mouth go _dry_ as he opened the door. Even Clarus' footsteps hitched in surprise as he stepped out and got a look at the young omega stood behind their King, the very same wild scrap of downy fluff that had been more teeth and claw than person if you paid any attention to Clarus' bitter reminiscence. Now though.... _wow._ Gone were the downy feathers, the rags, the dirt, the manic energy and aggression, even the thin pinched look of too many meals missed, and listless unhappiness that came from losing a nest was gone. Instead, a thin, elegant young man stood behind their King with long delicately folded sleek black wings, gleaming the familiar Lucis Caelum blue sheen in the late morning sunlight, along with a more unfamiliar iridescent green and violet. He wore black slacks, one of those fashionable double-sleeved tops as a coat with a high neck and almost knee-length split-sleeves in deep blood red and black. His hair had grown out and was now gathered and pinned at the back of his head in some kind of neatly rolled bun that Cor didn't know the name of. His hands were folded neatly in front of him and his expression was neutral and welcoming.

“Damn....” Clarus breathed. Cor nodded in wordless agreement.

Talk about the Ugly Chocobo Syndrome.

“Don' even _think_ about it,” Cid hissed behind them, nudging Regis not so gently from behind to hurry him up – none of them were allowed to walk ahead of him in the Citadel so he'd best pick his jaw up and start walking because his back was _killing_ him.

They followed after the Prince as he climbed the stairs and came to a stop in front of his father, bowing carefully even as his eyes continued to stray to the omega beside him. The look on his face didn't change from mild interest and calm at all. Cor began to feel a little uncomfortable to see it.

“Regis, I am glad to see you returned to us safely,” the King announced, smiling proudly behind his silver and white beard. And that was another surprise too, King Mors looked so much healthier than he had when they left three years ago. Regis had fretted almost constantly the whole time they were in Accordo, pulling his phone out of the Armiger to call him. Only to put it away again rather than risk giving away their position. Only to pull it out again a week later, and return it once more. He had agonised over the decision until Weskham snatched his phone off him and hid it, telling him sternly that he needed to make a decision and stick with it. Eventually, Regis doubled down on seeing his mission through to the end and not contacting his father. The phone was returned. But the decision still pained him.

“Thank you, father. I am delighted to see you in good health,” the Prince admitted, beaming happily as his father extended his no-longer-shaking hands to be taken. He stepped forward, grasping them in both hands as his wings curled around them protectively, “You _are_ in good health, yes?” he asked in an undertone of concern, his expression drawing pinched with slight anxiety.

King Mors chuckled, squeezing his hands, “I am indeed. As always, the staff of the Citadel take excellent care of me, and our young cousin has been particularly attentive. Come. I will explain everything once you have settled yourself in. We will dine in the blue room tonight. Come, rest,” he declared, squeezing his son's hands once more before stepping back and turning away, moving into the Citadel without any sign of his former hobbling gate. He wasn't even wearing his wing-brace any more.

Regis glanced to his cousin who had sidestepped out of the King's way with a small perfunctory bow. Vivid seagrass green eyes met warm olive and the omega offered him a small smile before bowing once again. “After you, Your Highness,” he intoned demurely. The picture perfect court-omega.

It made all the hairs on the back of Regis' neck stand on end to see the little firecracker he recalled from the Vesperpool looking and speaking in such a manner. He knew it was to be expected, the life of a Royal was one steeped in etiquette and strict rules and discipline. In total honesty, Regis himself was not looking forward to the return to such a rigid life-style, he had gotten far too used to slouching while away, he was going to have severe back-ache until he got back into the habit of proper posture.

If it hadn't been for the wings and the colour of his eyes, Regis would not have recognised the hellion they dragged to Insomnia all those years ago at all. And he wasn't the only one struggling with the change either. Clarus was looking as though he _severely_ regretted his behaviour back then, and Cor was focusing intently just a little to the left of the omega so as not to actually _look_ at him, the tips of his ears pink.

He bowed to the young omega as etiquette dictated, but didn't greet him verbally, unsure of whether or not his name had been changed upon being accepted into the family, and not remembering what it was in the first place, before he followed after his father. The omega followed behind him, as was appropriate – when the Royal Family entered any room together, it was always in order of succession with the Reigning Monarch in the lead, followed by their immediate Heir (said Heir's family if they had one), and then the second in line (and their family). Behind the young man fell Clarus and Cor in a flanking position with Cid bringing up the rear.

Members of staff bowed and curtsied as they passed, Regis smiled and greeted those he knew by name as they walked, murmurs of 'welcome back's filling his ears along with the relieved and pleased smiles making his shoulders relax and soothing some of the ache that came from his disgrace.

They reached one of the receiving rooms, stopping to give the staff time to open the doors before stepping in.

The omega slipped out from between them as the King made his way to the backless padded seat and sat down, the younger of them gathering up the papers and files from the coffee table that they had obviously abandoned when the call regarding their arrival came in.

“I will arrange to have your rooms prepared,” the omega informed them coolly without looking looking up before bowing to the King and leaving the room, Cor quickly stepping out of his way.

The door closed softly behind him.

“Friendly guy,” Clarus grumbled, only to yelp a little as Cid slapped him upside the head.

The King sighed and observed him with a frown, “Were you truly expecting less animosity given the circumstances of your last meeting, Clarus?” he asked rhetorically.

“That was three _years_ ago!” the young Shield protested as he dropped down onto a seat, exhausted and sulking over being snubbed.

“Three very difficult and painful years,” the King informed them regretfully, only to lift a hand when Regis opened his mouth, “And not to be discussed at present. You are all fresh from the road and exhausted. Refreshments will be up in a moment, rest.”

* * *

His rooms were unchanged since he was last home, it was going to be so strange sleeping alone from now on. Clarus, Cid, and Cor had been set up in the guest quarters for the night, tomorrow once they'd rested and reported they would be taken back to their respective homes, the Amacitia mansion, the Sophiar house, and the Lucian army's officers' quarters respectively.

Ikaros and Hector, his menservants, were happy to see him back and had drawn him up a hot bath and fresh clothes. Both of the older alphas had apparently been shuffled into the general staff while Regis was abroad, and oh boy, had the Citadel been like a kicked over daemon nest since he'd brought the little fledgeling home!

“Absolutely shocking state of affairs,” Ikaros gossiped shamelessly as Regis languished in the bath, the brown and cream winged man fussing over his travel stained clothing, separating it out into the laundry baskets along with the rest of the piles of clothing that he had pulled from the Armiger for them to deal with. Ikaros was the more gregarious and talkative of his attendants, he and Weskham would often go out for coffee together to have a long healthy gossip and complaint session about anything and everything currently going on in the Citadel. Hector was quieter, surprisingly shy actually, but a genuinely caring gentlealpha who doted on Regis like he were one of his own fledgelings (Regis had been a young teenager when the green winged man burst out into excited gushing after breakfast one morning about how his wife had given birth and he was a father now and _look_ he had _pictures_ and this was his baby girl), but he was just as much of a gossip as Ikaros, just better at getting that information than his chattier counterpart.

“Oh?” Regis hummed absently, practically boneless in his salted and mineralised bathwater, pressing spine against the pressurised jets of hot water to massage away the ache between his struts.

“That woman should have been banished,” Hector muttered with uncharacteristic viciousness.

Ikaros sniffed, “Oh, Six no. Imagine where she would have gone and what she would have told them! No, being locked up was the right choice,” he dismissed, waving the scrubbing brush he was using on some of the more ground in mud-stains. He then looked over at Regis, “The former Governess, Madam Sterpis, did she ever lay hands on _your_ wings?” he asked with sudden concern.

Regis frowned in hazy bewilderment, “My wings? No. No I don't recall.... she threatened to clip them a time or two when I was rowdy, but no, she never laid a hand on me. Why?” he asked, a sinking feeling suddenly yawning deep and cold in his stomach as he sat up to face the two servants properly.

Hector made an ugly harrumphing noise as his wings puffed up, focusing intently on sorting through the dirty clothing. Ikaros dropped the clothing brush and sat on the raised edge of the bathtub, “Prince Harry, the omega you brought back, she was absolutely out of line. The King was furious, and I don't think I've ever seen Lord Amacitia look so close to attacking a member of the staff,” he declared with a shake of his head.

“She would have deserved it,” Hector muttered resentfully. Regis was beyond confused and now _incredibly_ concerned because Hector was one of the most mild-mannered alphas he knew, he did not wish ill on anyone, not even Niflheim insurgents who 'were just doing their jobs'.

Ikaros nodded at him, “Oh most definitely.”

“What happened?” Regis demanded.

“Well, you see, it happened two months after you left for Accordo the second time. The two of them had been arguing the _whole_ time, full on screaming matches, slamming doors, throwing things. Prince Harry would always go out of the nearest window to get away from her when tempers got particularly hot and, you know how her wings aren't strong enough for flight,” the manservant confided with a dismissive sneer and a flip of his hand, more than conveying what he thought of any Citadel staff member being unable to utilise their Astral given wings in order to vacate the premises in the event of a bomb threat, attack, or even just to better attend to their duties should the situation call for it. “So, one day the argument is particularly vicious. That horrible woman insults Prince Harry's mother, and by this point we all know that is _one_ big red button you don't push. Everything went awfully quiet in there, and Violet refuses to disclose what was said, but it resulted in Madam Sterpis storming out of the room in absolute silence and leaving the Citadel entirely.”

Regis remembered enough of Harry's temperament to assume that when he went _quiet_ with his displeasure was when it was most dangerous, or when he had been hit in a particularly emotionally vulnerable spot and turned _vicious_ with his need to protect it.

“She comes back a week later for just a single day, and then the next,” Ikaros made a helpless kind of gesture, mouth opening as he tried to find the words to explain what had happened.

“That _vile_ woman drugged him unconscious,” Hector took over, slamming shirts into the washing basket forcefully, not looking up. “Plucked all the down from his wings because apparently it was undignified for a Prince of his age to be prancing around like a child. _Clipped_ his flight feathers to prevent him from skipping out of his lessons and parading himself around through the air 'like a commoner'. And – the King hit the roof when she announced this in the middle of her interrogation – she checked his modesty,” he seethed, and Regis felt like someone had just punched him in the gut. She checked whether or not his virginity was still intact? Th-that was – it was _not_ the Warring Era! There was no _need_-

“No.... No, she _wouldn't_,” he breathed.

“Believe it, Reggie,” Ikaros told him ruthlessly. “Poor boy's wings were mutilated. Poor Violet almost brought the entire Royal wing down she screamed so loud when she found him. Whatever drug that woman used reacted poorly with him, poor thing was ill for days while the King handled her. Twenty years for Assault, another ten for Sexual Assault, eight for breach of contract. She's going to die in that prison and good riddens.”

He was stunned. Confused and distress and just – why on _Eos_ would she do such a thing?

She had threatened him several times as a young lad to straighten up or she would clip his wings, ground him both literally and figuratively, but aside from pinching his ear and his wing-joint, and of course rapping his knuckles with her favourite wooden ruler, she had never laid a rough hand on him. Her tongue was more than punishing enough as it was.

“And Harry – when he was well enough...”

“Ran away,” Hector informed him stiffly, “Vanished for three weeks. The Royal Guard never _did_ figure out how he got out. They found him living in the forest at the north end. The King went to talk to him personally every day, but after three or so his health took a bad turn during a visit. Prince Harry did something with his magic and went with them straight back to the Citadel. I think he cared more about the King's health than whatever had happened to him at that point.”

“Of course he did,” Ikaros scoffed, “For all that the Council seems to think he's prepared to tear the city down brick by brick he's a good kid.”

* * *

Dinner was private, which meant they could speak freely without any of the iron welded to their spines.

The King sat at the centre of the table, relatives on both sides of him, sat opposite was Clarus, Cid, and Cor. It was small, intimate, and yet comfortable – for all save Regis who kept sneaking small glances over his father's head at his silently eating cousin. His wings had recovered well, enough so that if he hadn't been told by Ikaros and Hector he would have never thought anything had occurred at all. He seemed to have mastered the table manners expected of a Royal, sitting with almost perfect poise, handling his dishware in a manner to be expected, he had even folded his napkin correctly in his lap. He couldn't see, but he was also fairly sure he was sat in a particular fashion that he had only ever seen other omega in the courts do, the same way his mother used to sit if he recalled.

He glanced to his Retinue, Cid was detailing what he'd seen of the Niflheim airships and technology with great grumpiness, as well as complaining about how the Altissians' managed their ship mechanics and engineering – much to his father's amusement. Clarus kept glancing at his cousin as he ate, his expression considering in a way that made him want to kick the alpha under the table. Cor glanced at all of them, gauging their reactions, how far along their meals they were so he didn't appear to be rushing, but also so that he wouldn't be left hungry when the King finished eating.

Which was a very good point, Regis realised, he should stop studying everyone and get to eating. His father was already half finished and when the King finished eating, the meal was _over_.

“So, Prince Harry, have you been settling in alright?” Clarus eventually asked when conversation lulled and people were more interested in their stew than conversation.

Cid cut the Shield a sharp look while Cor glanced to the King from the corner of his eye. Mors didn't have much of an expression as he spooned more stew into his mouth. Beside him Regis had gone stiff, meanwhile the omega set down his spoon to turn his attention to the Shield.

“Would you like the polite answer or the true one?” he asked calmly, green eyes meeting brown almost challengingly.

Cor looked at the King warily as Clarus began to tense up.

“Whatever you feel comfortable sharing,” he interrupted quietly, glancing away from the King to the younger Prince who flicked those astonishingly green eyes in his direction before turning away again and picking up his spoon.

“There were rough patches in the beginning, but things have settled down in recent years,” he explained dismissively.

“Have you found any charities to patron yet, Harry?” Regis asked kindly. All Royals were expected to find a few causes to champion, he himself was an advocate for education and veterans rights when he was younger before he enlisted with the Crownsguard. Unfortunately as an omega royal, Harry wasn't permitted to enlist within any of the militaries the way that many Lucis Caelum tended to, but he would still be expected to serve the people to a certain point. Even those who married into the family had to have either been in the military or gone on to serve the people in some capacity once wed – even Aulea, his fiancée, would be expected to find various charities to patron once they were wed (hopefully soon).

The King coughed discreetly with amusement and Harry actually smirked, giving the King a particular sideways glance that had the man reaching for his drink to better hide his wildly twitching moustache.

“One.... could say that, yes,” he admitted agreeably.

Somehow.... “Would they happen to have anything to do with why the Council think you plan to pull Insomnia apart brick by brick?” he asked jokingly, recalling what Hector and Ikaros had to say earlier.

The omega's smirk went from smugly amused to outright shit eating. “Perhaps,” he mused lightly before taking a mouthful of stew.

The King hiccuped and giggled into his wine.

* * *

There was to be a ball the next week to officially welcome him back home, in the meanwhile, Regis made time to visit his beloved Aulea, Cid went home to his wife, Clarus returned to Amacitia manor where his father and mother waited, and Cor was given two weeks R&R and a stern command not to report for duty until he'd actually _taken_ it.

Which was probably why he ended up heading to the Citadel training rooms to work off some steam. He couldn't stand sitting still and after months on the road, even twelve hours without doing anything felt itchy under his _skin_.

Standing on the sidelines, watching as the shirtless black winged omega used a metal staff to throw the Royal Guard across the room, he decided he should have just stayed at home and read a book or something. It would have been so much _safer_ if he had. A female alpha noticed him lingering and scowled, marching over from where she had been stood to one side, with a staff of her own, her wing-span was _huge_, larger even than Clarus', and was a curious mixture of white coverts and brown pinions.

“Can I help you?” she asked sharply, stopping well out of arms reach, pale grey eyes like steel as she gave him a suspicious look up and down.

“Calm down Lyssa,” the Prince called from the otherside of the room where he was wiping his face on a towel, “He's one of Prince Regis' retinue,” he explained and the woman relaxed, her wings dropping by a few inches.

“I see, my apologies,” she said with an apologetic bow.

Cor shrugged, “It's fine. You were – doing your job?” he queried.

She smirked at him, “Quite right. I'm glad you understand. Many who come to ogle seem to miss that.”

“Flirt later, fight now please, Lyssa,” the young Prince called.

She flushed, “I was not!” she objected, wings puffing up, but not bristling with aggression. Cor watched in almost as daze as the Prince smirked at her, cheeks flushed with exertion, sweat damp on his hairline, running down his chest, spinning his staff and gesturing at her to come and get some.

This was a personal attack on him, he was sure of it.

The female alpha, Lyssa?, turned away from him without a backwards glance to run at the young Prince with a yell, staff lashing out, the two of them filling the air with clashing metal, yelps, and grunts of exertion.

It was difficult, but he told himself to _stop_ being creepy and actually do what he came here to do, which was find a sparring partner. He tore his eyes away and moved to the other side of the training hall where a few of the Royal Guard were mingling – and ogling the fighting pair themselves. All save a small group of four. He made his way to them. They were all older, and a mixture of both alpha males and females, with only the one omega woman amongst them, and she had the exact same kind of brown wings as he did.

“Anyone interested in sparring?” he asked quietly.

The man with the thickly fluffed white and black speckled wings nodded, “Sure. Watching this lot trip over their tongues was only entertaining for the first week. What's your poison?” he asked curiously as he screwed the cap back onto his water and pushed off from the bench.

“Sword. You?” he asked, wings twitching upward enthusiastically. He hadn't sparred since he left Insomnia, it had been fight to survive and kill outside the wall, it would be nice to just exercise without the threat of death or maiming.

The guy nodded, “Same. I prefer to the concede, but we can do to first blood if you're into that,” he offered, though the faintly wrinkled nose showed what he thought of that.

“Concede,” he confirmed, and the two separated from the wall to stand in the middle of the training mat, summoning their respective blades. For the white and black winged Guard he called up a large old Lucian zanbatou style blade, much wider and longer, literally just a five foot by one foot slab of steel that someone had put a handle and an edge on and called a sword. Cor summoned up the plain katana he picked up from that crazy blacksmith in Lestallum after he lost Genji in the Tempering Grounds. Kotetsu wasn't flashy in the slightest, but the blade was strong and sturdy and it got the job done efficiently. It was a good partner, and Cor didn't care for much past that. He was done trying to be greater than he was, more than he should be.

He was the son of a refugee. He was a soldier. He bore brown wings. He was what he was.

And he was very good with a sword.

The fight lasted well over half an hour. Cor wasn't _trying_ to win, he just wanted to fight, and the guy with the massive sword certainly had the stamina to wield it, and the temperament to realise this was just for fun and not take it as a dick-waving contest.

Sharp eyes watched them carefully, but by the time the match was finished, the Prince and the alpha woman were gone.

* * *

“Staff Sergeant!” a female voice cracked like his old drill sergeant from down the corridor, “A moment of your time, if I may,” she continued as he turned and spotted the same female alpha with the gargantuan wings from the training room. He gave the woman a perfunctory, polite, salute that was sharply returned with the characteristic tilt of the hand that indicated a member of the Crownsguard.

“How may I be of assistance, ma'am?” he asked the older woman briskly, judging by her tone earlier she was likely of a more direct personality.

“I am Otulissa Medici, Retainer to Second Prince Harry,” she introduced with a short nod, “I have been hoping to speak to one of those who brought him into Insomnia for some time, do you have a moment to answer some questions for me?”

He nodded a little more hesitantly, “Of course...”

She ruffled herself, pleased, and gestured for him to follow as she marched down the corridor to one of the smaller reading rooms. “Prince Harry is incredibly recalcitrant regarding his coming to Insomnia; as I understand it, it was somewhat traumatic and he has some... hm... _hang-ups_ I believe the most accurate term is. I cannot do my duty and support him without knowing the circumstances, and getting information he does not wish to share is worse than plucking feathers,” she explained as they came into a meeting room. It was small, still twice the size of his bedroom at home, with a piano in one corner and a small sitting area with coffee table, sofas, and chairs. The older woman sat herself down on one of them and gestured at him to sit also, “It is not in my nature to force such a confrontation with the Prince, not when he's habitually avoidant and liable to throw himself out of the nearest window. And catching him in midair is _impossible_.”

Cor's eyebrow rose. He could barely fly the last time, somehow he doubted that the Royal Guard were incapable of capturing him given how there wouldn't have been much opportunity for flight since his arrival. Insomnia was not a culture, nor a city, built with flight friendly infrastructure.

She nodded in disgruntlement, “Oh yes, most definitely impossible. He took Sterpis' attack upon his person as an affront and refused to let it hold him back. He is quite capable of outflying anyone within the Guard, and has left the majority of his protection detail eating pavement a time or three,” she sighed, before leaning back and pointing lazily at him as she crossed her legs. “But that is neither here nor there. Tell me how he was found, and how he came to be here in Insomnia. Leave nothing out. Not even the car journey to the city. _Something_ occurred and I need to know.”

They were not memories Cor was particularly comfortable thinking about now that he was older and wiser, he regretted not making more of a stand, not knowing _enough_ to make more of a stand. He could see with hindsight that it was hamhanded to the point of cruelty. They had been horribly impatient in their effort to get the omega to Insomnia and return to their originally assigned mission, as though he were little more than an after thought.

It was also not particularly flattering to Clarus, and he could see the way the Retainer's feathers were beginning to bristle as she listened, and tried to keep her expression as neutral as possible.

She inhaled slowly as he wound down, finishing on how they were sent out a month after the Prince had finished settling in – the only reason they had been kept around for that long was to assist in that settling in period. The woman nodded slowly, shaking herself out a little bit, wings unfolding to do just that before tucking back up. She wet her lips thoughtfully and seemed to choose her words carefully.

“I see. That.... explains some things I had been wondering about. It raises more questions of course, but it answers the majority of my concerns. Thank you for your candidness, Staff Sergeant Leonis,” she said before getting to her feet with a short nod, “I do believe I know at least one step to take in the future. I do hope you will assist me.”

He nodded and got to his feet as well, “Anything I can,” he agreed simply. His vows demanded it, and, his honour did as well.

Her smile was implacable, and a little apologetic, “It will not be easy.”

“As long as it does not put the Royal Family into danger, I am willing,” he assured her.

“Keep Clarus Amacitia away from Prince Harry.”

* * *

This would have been the ideal time to contact Weskham to ask for advice, however, none of them wanted to draw attention to him or put him into danger by opening a potentially compromised avenue of communication. Which left Cor tentatively approaching both Lord Armaugh and Lord Amacitia for advice. It was, perhaps, not the best of ideas to approach Clarus' father, however, both of them had been working in the courts for longer than he'd been alive. They would know how best to juggle and attend to both duty and bonds of friendship without compromising either.

Of course he didn't expect Lord Amacitia to drop his head into his hands with a heartfelt groan when the subject was brought up.

It was the most emotive Cor had ever seen the man before in his life.

Lord Armaugh merely patted the man on the shoulder and smiled benignly at Cor, “Think nothing of it, young Cor,” he soothed, “Dianthus has been hoping he could convince young Clarus to make a good impression once he had settled in properly.” He patted the muttering man's back mirthfully, and a little mockingly, “Only to have his plans thwarted long before he even concepted them. Poor fledgeling.”

“How – softest most pathetically forgiving – yet would rather set them on _fire_ – ” the King's former Shield muttered into his palms.

Cor shuffled a little uncomfortably and Lord Armaugh just laughed.

“There there, Dianthus, there there. We knew it would be a long shot. Clarus doesn't particularly have the right mindset to handle an individual like Harry.”

The long drawn out growl of irritation was somewhat entertaining, Cor would admit. “The omega is perhaps one of the most _adaptive_ individuals on the continent, and is both unfailingly soft-hearted and an absolute volatile _hell-beast_, how has my son _already_ ruined his chances here?” he demanded looking up at Cor for answers.

He swallowed, “It – probably has to do with the violence, sir. And the manhandling. And possibly the death of his former flock, sir.”

The two Lords stared at him.

“I beg your pardon?” Lord Armaugh requested, bewildered.

Cor looked between them, “Did... the official report not reach you, my lords?” he asked warily. He definitely knew he submitted one detailing everything he could think of.

“No written report was turned in. It was deemed too sensitive to be placed onto hardcopy,” Lord Amacitia said before narrowing his eyes at him and sitting up straight. “A verbal report I would request of you now, Staff Sergeant. Everything you can remember.”

Oh hell. Again?

“Yes sir.”

* * *

Of course things reached a head at the welcoming back ball. Because nothing could ever go right in Cor's life he realised as the majority of Insomnia's elite swanned around the roof-top gardens, smoosing, and, of course, bothering both of the young Princes.

Regis chuckled a little bit, Aulea on his arm, as he watched his cousin dance with a rather chatty young alpha man who swept them across the dance floor, flaring his wings dramatically as he did so. Cor refrained from shaking his head, if only because there were so many Lords and Ladies present who would gossip over any perceived poor behaviour on his part (he was well aware that there was more than a little outrage that he had even been invited, the refugee bred commoner boy amongst Royalty? Oh by the Six how could it be, clutch your _pearls_).

“I do believe this has been the least attention I have ever received at a social gathering,” the Prince mused sympathetically as his cousin gracefully inclined his head to the alpha, who was still talking and displaying his wings, as a different woman cut in and they began to dance themselves.

“Yes, poor thing has been fielding every alpha between the age of ten and sixty since he was announced,” Aulea sighed, her pretty blue and white wings flexing behind her. “At least they are minding their manners this time,” she observed with an approving nod before patting her fiancée's hand, “You know I do not approve of violence but truly, last year it was absolutely warranted. That young Alpha from the Berresford family, an absolutely intolerable sort, seemed to get it into his head that if he pushed hard enough that young Harry would absolutely be willing to let him into his bedchambers.” Regis bristled, and Cor felt his own wings twitch up with anger even as he swallowed it back and tried to breathe it down. His temper had gotten him into too much trouble already and it was quite obvious that nothing had occurred and the young omega could handle himself. Aulea made the ugliest scoffing snort Cor had _ever_ heard in his acquaintance with the young woman, “Oh, he most certainly got what he deserved, the brute. The Royal Guard did not even have the opportunity to step away from their posts before young Harry had him face down on the ground with both of his arms dislocated and his wings in a lock,” she explained with relish.

Regis chuckled a little weakly, “You are unexpectedly pleased,” he noted.

She waved her fan airily, “Of course I am. The Berresford boy truly was the most vile of alphas. Utterly incapable of keeping his hands to himself, no matter who the omega in question was.”

And that made Regis stiffen with an uncharacteristic fury.

Cor looked away quickly.

The Prince had agonised quite often over whether or not it was fair to make Aulea wait for him, whether she would be willing to do so. She was a young, beautiful omega lady from a good family, she had the intelligence and the beauty and the poise to do anything she wished in the world and she would succeed at it. Why on earth she would willingly agree to marry him, knowing that she would lose all of her privacy, that she would forever he chained to her position, that she would likely outlive him by decades as the Ring of the Lucii ate into his life, he couldn't fathom. He had been almost insufferable for the three and a half years they had spent on the road and then fighting in Altissia. To learn that she had been fending pushy alphas off in his absence – alphas who would lay hands on her without permission....

He stiffened as he saw Clarus approach the young Prince, an attempt at a smile on his face, and saw the second the omega became aware of him, and the ever so tiny _flinch_ of his wings, easily disguised by resettling them on his shoulders.

“Regis. Get Clarus away from him,” he muttered to the Prince.

“What?”

“Get Clarus away from Harry before this all goes up in flames,” he hissed urgently, Otulissa was already making a beeline for them, her huge wings already beginning to mantle up over her shoulders.

“Why? He can't still be angry about a few careless comments can he?” the Prince scoffed, looking over his shoulder to where Clarus was obviously asking the young omega to dance.

Harry flicked a hand out, stopping Otulissa in her tracks and then stepped forward to accept the dance, as he technically _had_ to. The list of rules for Royals was extensive and Cor had been briefed on many of them while he worked close protection for the King, accepting all dances happened to be one of the rules reserved for omega, where as alphas were _required_ to offer a dance at least three times during an evening, but always first to their spouse or their fiancée.

“Somehow,” he muttered, studying the young omega and his perfectly mild and placid expression, feeling a small chill up his back, “I think angry might be too mild a word.”

* * *

Clarus was beginning to feel uncomfortably like he was dancing with a puppet.

He had tried to speak with the omega once they got onto the dance floor, small talk about how he had been settling in, how he was glad that he was looking a lot healthier than before, that they were likely to be seeing more of each other as he took over more of his father's duties and set down several of his Shield ones, but he would be happy to help with anything he asked for. But.... the omega hadn't even spoken a word, nor opened his mouth, he just smiled politely and occasionally nodded. It took a few minutes before Clarus realised that he wasn't even looking him in the eye, but rather looking at his left ear instead.

The song ended and despite attempting to tighten his grip on the Prince's hand, the omega gracefully stepped away from him with a small inclination.

“Excuse me,” he demurred, and then walked away.

Following immediately after him was an unknown alpha woman, her feathers bristling. That looked like _trouble_. He followed.

The two stepped out of the party and to one of the quieter areas of the garden, overlooking the city.

“ – swear I am going to do something violent eventually,” the omega growled, leaning against the railings.

“His Majesty appreciates your restraint, I'm sure,” the alpha woman assured him dryly, “I apologise for not preventing that,” she grimaced unhappily, wings ruffling. Just who was she to the omega?

“It's fine Lyssa. It would have been more suspicious if you'd stopped him.” The omega turned around to put his back to the city and stretch, wings arching out against the night sky as he pushed his arms forward and then over his head, back arching in a way that made his mouth a little dry. “I mean, I'm obligated to dance with all of the returners on top of every knot-brained alpha who asks.” She hrrumphed, folding her arms. “I will be back momentarily. I just need to – breathe. Before I set someone on fire,” the omega assured her as he rubbed his face.

The woman 'Lyssa' huffed, “Hard to believe you're the same fledgeling I had to teach manners to back then.”

He flicked a wing out to cuff her, “My manners were fine and you know it.”

“It was everyone else who was the problem,” she laughed. His retainer perhaps? A little unusual to allow an omega to have an alpha retainer, but then again, given how the omega in question had been before hand, it would have been difficult for another omega to keep him in line. “You've done well. You even tolerated Pyrites' behaviour on top of having to dance with Amacitia.” Him? What did _he_ have to do with anything? “I'm proud of you.”

The omega scoffed on a laugh, “Pyrites' father is on the legislative committee. I can't afford to alienate them, not with all the work we've put into the new laws. Still. Once its gone through, if he inches his hand up my back again, I'm ripping it off and beating him with the soggy end,” he informed her with a grin that showed off an alarming amount of teeth. “As for Amacitia, he is unfortunately correct in that I will have to deal with him more often. Fingers crossed his father will prevent any truly moronic behaviours but I am not holding much hope after tonight,” he sneered, and Clarus felt himself bristling defensively.

“Oh?” the retainer prompted calmly.

“Somehow I don't think he remembers anything from when we first met, that can be the only explanation for why he would think it in any way a possibility that I would _want_ to either spend time with him, seek his help, or his company,” he admitted dismissively, scratching his chin, utterly ignorant to the way the subject of their conversation was stewing furiously just out of sight. “I would rather deal with back to back cabinet meetings,” he sighed. What the hell was he doing in _cabinet_ meetings?!

The retainer looked furious, “He didn't attempt to pressure – ”

Clarus almost stepped out then and there but the omega scoffed.

“No. He isn't that stupid. But he is definitely attempting at in-roads in that direction.” Had he truly been so transparent? Then again, it was probably the only reason anyone even bothered to talk to him at these gatherings so.... “Such a shame for him that it's a waste of time. I would still rather slit my throat.”

What. _Still?_

“Do _not_ say that, Harry!” his retainer snapped.

“Why not? It's true,” the omega stated flatly, staring at her in the dark with acid green eyes and an expression that made something cold and heavy solidify in Clarus' stomach. He'd seen that expression before. On Cor's face when he failed the Trials, on Regis' face when they walked out of Crestholm Channels without finding a single survivor, on the faces of the Altissian resistance fighters before they ate a gun. “I _would_ rather cut my throat than marry that man. I would rather cut my throat than marry _any_ of them.” He scoffed and turned away to look out over the city. “I wish I'd gotten the chance before we got here.”

Clarus felt a sick chill.

“Harry....” the retainer murmured, reaching out only to snap her hand back with a pain-filled grimace.

“Please extend my apologies onto Grandfather. I believe I will turn in for the evening. I.... am feeling unwell,” the young Prince intoned, his voice practically _dead,_ before vaulting over the railings and jumping off the side of the building.

The woman sighed, “Of course.... sir,” she whispered to the empty sky before turning away and following a different path back to the party.

Leaving Clarus with the unpleasant realisation that the Second Prince was in a very bad way.

* * *

Or perhaps not?

He watched in a dazed mixture of vague hilarity, admiration, and no small amount of pity at the cabinet meeting his father dragged him to as the young omega verbally _eviscerated_ one of the lords while the King looked on in stony anger, allowing his young charge free reign to deal with the individual that had displeased him. Clarus wasn't even sure what the discussion was about, just that it involved one of the newly drafted veterans' rights bills and how the Lord in question attempted to.... co-opt it? Or something? Take advantage and work in some kind of trade deal for exclusive rights on something for a company that his husband's brother happened to own?

How the hell the omega knew about that was a bit beyond him, but either way, the verbal smack down was incredibly satisfying. Hell, he wished _Weskham_ were here to see this. Aside from Cid he had been the most worried about the young omega being left to fed for himself in Insomnia. Seeing this would have soothed all of his ruffled feathers – or perhaps made them worse?

It is, once the King called his attack dog off, the most productive cabinet meeting Clarus has ever seen unfold.

He never thought he would ever see the day the stiff-necked alphas of the cabinet get run over by an omega but, there it was, in front of him. The young Prince ruthlessly dragging them all back on topic, remorselessly calling out wandering attention and demanding explanations and break downs on statements both benign and malicious. He was pretty sure Regis was in the throws of a sustained heart attack, and yet the omega hadn't stopped calling the cabinet ministers to task and beside him the woman he assumed was her retainer was taking copious notes. He saw her move only once during the discussion as one of the Lords was speaking on a subject, she nudged the Prince, flipped over a page and pointed to a paragraph she had written down from an hour earlier. The omega scanned the whole page, waited for the Lord to finish speaking, and then proceeded to tear him a new asshole.

The meeting ended, and the Royal family left, leaving the Ministers to relax in a smoking room with heartfelt groans and glasses of brandy.

“Someone needs to put a leash on that omega,” one of the Lords complained tiredly. There were scattered murmurs of agreement, none of them seemed to have noticed that Clarus was present amongst them, his father had nudged him into joining the Cabinet Ministers while he went with the King. Likely to listen to their _real_ opinions after the meeting.

“Is your son any closer to getting his favour?” one of them demanded looking at a blond Lord that Clarus recalled seeing the night of the party.

He rolled his glass of brandy and scoffed, “Septimus tries, but he neither has the spine nor the tongue to tame _that_ shrew.” He quaffed his glass with a huff, “A shame that Berresford stupidly pushed too hard.”

Berresford, that was the family name of the alpha Regis had been all but hissing and spitting about after that evening party. Apparently he had been getting handsy with Aulea in Regis' absence much to the lady's displeasure. So, he had been inappropriate with Prince Harry as well, hm?

“Idiot boy never could control himself,” one of the other Lords complained, “He is fortunate Lord Avis never got his hands on him after that scandal with his son.”

“The boy was an omega and never should have been left unchaperoned. Any impropriety is his own making,” the blond Lord, father of this Septimus, scoffed.

Clarus can't stay quiet at that. He might have been raised with a somewhat more traditional mindset, but he had seen omega in Altissia strap themselves with grenades and seduce their way into a Niflheim base only to kill every single person on their way back out. That omega woman Weskham went stupid over towards the end, Camilla Claustra, had been the very definition of hardass ice queen, so much so that they hadn't realised she was an omega until she had been forced to fly in front of them, having held her wings in such a way to hide the extra joint from casual observation.

“Then perhaps you should be raising your alphas properly,” he interrupted as he got to his feet, several of the Lords frowning at him without recognition, for all of a split second, at which point spines straightened and glasses were quickly put down. “If your alphas are so ill-raised they cannot obey _the law_, and force their attentions onto others, then that seems to me that none of you are particularly fit to hold the positions you do.”

“Now, see here, Amacitia,” the blond Lord blustered his wings puffing up with alarm causing those who hadn't yet recognised him to stiffen with alarm, and Clarus turned and raised an eyebrow demandingly at him.

“See what?” he demanded sharply, “See that Insomnia, for all of its technological superiority, functions so far behind the rest of the world its culture may very well be considered _archaic_ by the rest of Lucis? Barbaric by Accordo and Tenebrae?” he asked before shaking his head in disgust at the lot of them. He almost couldn't believe what he was hearing but at the same time, he could see how easily his _own_ views had been on the brink of slipping down this very same disgusting path when they first left Insomnia. He hadn't thought much of it, but his views had changed, had _grown_, so much in the years he had been away that now these very opinions that he would have once felt only a little uncomfortable and even semi-agreed with in certain circumstances now _sickened_ him. It was almost startling to realise just how vast a difference there was between the him of now, and the him of yesteryear – it felt as though he were still a floundering ignorant teenager mentally screaming that he couldn't do this that he wasn't trained for this.

But he never would have dared speak up to the Cabinet Ministers before he left Insomnia, could have silently listened and never dared to challenge them. Never dared to put them in their place.

He shook his head as he glared down at the pathetic soft, _ignorant_, alphas who had never known a day of hard work in their lives, who had been safe all this time behind the Wall, within the Citadel, and sought to advise the King with forked tongues and honey-laden poison.

“Pathetic,” he decided, almost surprised to realise it, before he turned and left the room.

No wonder the Second Prince wanted to slit his own throat. Clarus undoubtedly would feel the same after three years of dealing with that, being looked down upon the whole while, and having to defend himself from unwanted sexual advances.

Did he have a Shield?

Time to find that alpha woman and see what was missing from the Second Prince's retinue.

* * *

Mors directed him to the Second Prince's suite, but did advise him not to expect a warm welcome. Unless invited, alphas were _never_ received with any particular welcome – an unfortunate casualty of his frequent unwelcome guests.

Clarus didn't expect better. The omega had been clear as cut glass on that rooftop during the party, and he had absolutely no intention of putting that expression on his face. He _never_ wanted to be the cause of that expression on _anyone's_ face. It was too late for him to fix what had already done, but he could improve on the current situation and make his amends.

Nothing like being confronted with your fuck ups to encourage you to pull your finger out.

A pretty dark haired omega woman answers the door, one of the maids he recalled, the one with the pretty blue and purple wings. Her uniform is.... definitely not the standard maids' outfit. She's in a pair of smart trousers, with steel-capped boots, and wearing a button up blouse with three-quarter length sleeves. Her hair is pulled back neatly and her face is clear of make-up. She looks professional without being made-up and she was so unassumingly pretty that she could have gone anywhere in the Citadel and he doubted anyone would look twice.

“Shield Amacitia,” she greeted, but did not allow him inside, “Prince Harry is not accepting visitors today.”

He nodded, “That's fine, I was hoping to speak with his retainer if I may,” he explained, catching the flash of quick surprise on her face before she nodded and hesitantly opened the door a little further.

“Of course. Please sit, I will fetch her.”

He stepped into the small receiving porch with interest, it had changed somewhat since the Prince had moved in. The walls were a pale yellow now instead of the deep royal blue they once were, it made the whole corridor look brighter. The walls bore framed paintings of the Vesperpool, and, he realise with a sharp sting of alarm, that dread king bandersnatch was featured in one of them, half-submerged in the Vesper mudflats, blowing bubbles in the water.

The alpha woman with the unusually large wings appears, she's dressed almost identically to the maid save for her black waistcoat. She is... very attractive, he notes, her wings were even larger than his and somewhere in the back of his head he recalled the young Prince saying that his wings came from the – largest seabird? He wondered then which bird hers came from.

“Shield Amacitia, Antiope said you were looking for me,” she greeted.

He nodded and got to his feet, “Yes. Do you have a moment, if not I can come back at a more convenient time, Miss?” he asked somewhat leadingly. There was a very definite air to the Second Prince's rooms, one that told him that anything less than perfect respect to the staff would be treated with the contempt they deserve.

“Otulissa Medici,” she answered briskly. “I have time. What is it you need?”

All business, no pleasantries. He liked this woman.

“Conversations after the last cabinet meeting have raised some concerns regarding Prince Harry's wellbeing. Has a suitable Shield been found for him yet?” he asked bluntly, figuring that getting to the point would be better received than dancing around the issue.

Medici shook her head, “No. Unfortunately despite many protective details, not a single one has been able to keep up with the Prince in either combat, magic, or flight.” She gestured to herself, “I came to my role as his Retainer for my intelligence and open-mindedness. I was a lawyer prior to this.”

Huh.

He nodded slowly, “I will look into finding one then. Please could you compile a list of personality and behaviour characteristics that would be compatible to the Prince? Finding someone with the right personality takes precidence since it would be an arrangement formed later in life. Everything else can be trained,” he concluded firmly, watching as the woman narrowed her eyes on him suspiciously. “Hindsight is 20-20 as they say. My behaviour when bringing the Prince to Insomnia was inexcusable and at the time I was too ignorant to notice or acknowledge that. I cannot undo what has been done, but I can at the very least make amends.”

She nodded slowly, “I see. That.... is surprisingly mature of you, Amacitia. I will get you your list.” A moment later she was summoning a scrap of paper and a pen from the armiger, writing down a string of numbers. “My contact number. The Prince does not appreciate his bedroom being used as a meeting room by those he does not trust. Call me when you have your candidates and we will discuss this further.”

He nodded, accepting the small rebuke for what it was, and left.

Time to do what no Amacitia had ever had to do in their life – recruit a Shield from outside the family.

* * *

Regis has been home for six months now, and he can say without a shadow of a doubt, he loves his baby cousin fiercely, and his father can only laugh and admit that the omega tolerates that love with more patience than he expected. Aulea, of course, adores the teenager which goes quite a distance in making Regis more agreeable towards him in the beginning, but as time progresses and they get to know each other _outside_ of their Royal Duties and the hurt feelings of yesteryear, Regis becomes painfully fond of the young man who seems to be a walking exercise of contradictions. Incredibly kind yet utterly ruthless, lazy but relentless and driven, fussy yet careless.

In one breath he may very well threaten to set fire to the Kings' suite, and in the next tear a strip down one side and up the other of his father for not taking proper care of his health.

This though....

His father certainly seems entertained, “Are you certain of this?” he asked Clarus, setting the short-list of Shield candidates down.

Opposite him the youngest Amacitia has his head in his hands.

“There's no one else, your Majesty. I've combed through every single person in the Royal Guard _and_ the Crownsguard who has the needed nationality and service requirements. They're the only ones, and I don't trust myself to make the final decision because I am _biased_ as all hell,” he admitted as he looked up, grimacing down at said list.

Titus Drautos  
Maximus Valentio  
Manius Bile   
Cor Leonis  
Corax Mordecai

With Cor's name on the list, of _course_ he would be biased.

Hell. They were _all_ biased towards the young alpha. The list of requirements that Medici had provided made finding a decent candidate incredibly difficult, especially given that Clarus was not going to half-ass any manner of protection to the Prince who would be one hell of a target for both Niflheim _and_ any asshole attempting a power grab (There was absolutely no _chance_ of Mors ever agreeing to it, but there was always going to be some idiot who would get it into their head that if they could only _force_ a pregnancy then the Royal family would rush a marriage through to avoid a scandal. Any idiot who thought that was going to be introduced to the King's knuckledusters _personally_).

All five of the short-list had the personality requirements outlined, thus it came down to purely skill on this front.

“Surely,” Aulea began slowly, “This should be a decision left into Harry's hands at this point?” she asked delicately, arching an eyebrow at them all pointedly. “It is one thing to decide he requires a Shield at this juncture, but he is a young man who had handled everything demanded of him with grace and dignity. However, he has never handled other people being forced onto him with any particular appreciation.” She tapped the list, “There is also the matter of whether or not _they_ are interested in a change of career.”

Regis nodded slowly, “True. You are wise beyond your short years, my love.”

“Maybe a tournament of some kind?” Clarus mused, looking between them. “Ask if they're willing to make the jump, invite those who are for a meet and greet tournament, give Harry a chance to meet and speak with them, and then show off their combat ability. We all sit down and talk it over after?”

Aulea nodded, pleased, “That would be best, I think,” she decided as she got to her feet, “And, no offence intended gentlemen, if you were to present it to Harry he will not be best inclined to go along with it. This needs a woman's touch.”

“Not an omegas?” Regis asked playfully.

She smiled mysteriously, “Strangely, alpha and omega mean less to young Harry than you could possibly imagine. Likely because he grew up without those terms.”

* * *

Harry is a little less than enthused about the whole idea, and it takes a fair bit of talking around from both Aulea and Otulissa while both Violet and Antiope watch with judgemental eyebrows in full effect – the young Prince is in the middle of his menses which, unfortunately because he presented so late and under such stress, has meant he suffers quite terribly from the typical ailments. As a female omega, Aulea does not have that unfortunate problem. Otulissa will follow on hers not long after the Prince as seems to be the cycle the two of them have fallen into since the alpha birthed her daughter last year.

The tournament is largely kept private, somewhat informal.

All of the short list agreed to it, some with a little more hesitance than expected (Cor had needed some gentle encouragement from all of them to agree, so sure that because he'd failed the Tempering Ground's trial that he was unworthy), which brought them to one of the more private training rooms there everyone could watch and there the prospective Shields were able to speak with the Prince.

Aulea was incredibly biased, just as much as the rest of them, towards Cor who was stood stiffly to attention, looking a little uncomfortable next to the four other alphas – all of which being older than him, with somewhat more _dramatic_ plumage. He looked almost unassuming by comparison to Drautos' vivid blood red wings, and the stark greens and silvers of the others.

They talk first, opting to get to know each of the young men before moving onto the combat portion. To her eyes, it is quite clear that aside from Cor the others have their favourites – Regis seems quite taken with Drautos, while Clarus is watching Mordecai with keen eyes, and the King favoured Bile. However, she is quite firm in her belief that Cor is the best choice of them, and watching Harry she can see her opinion is at least somewhat echoed. He does not like Drautos in the least, he speaks politely enough with the young man, his feathers don't even twitch, but the ever so slight lift of his jaw and the way his expression goes smooth and marble like sells it harder than if he had been attempting to set the young man on fire. He does not like, nor does he trust, Titus Drautos.

The man with the red wings will not be chosen.

Manius Bile is a charming sort, affable and polite, but he is somewhat forgettable in her opinion, flashy plumage aside. Maximus Valentio is less interested in endearing himself to them, and more in defeating the others, none of them are keen on championing him no matter what his sterling service record has to say. Corax Mordecai seems to be a more energetic and.... simplistic version of Clarus, a good man, unwaveringly good natured, but not very bright. Harry found him amusing but in the same way one would a pet, not a protector.

Cor really was the best choice in her opinion, he had comported himself quietly and respectfully, he out of all of them knew what it meant to be a Shield and why this meeting was important, he shared more about his personal life than he did his military record and it was plain, at least to her, that it had won him greater regard than Drautos' cold bragging of his combat engagements. (She had no idea that Cor enjoyed wood working and model painting! She finally had inspiration on what to get him for Draconian's Day!)

Then came the fights.

She was not a fan of violence, but she did appreciate skill, and all of these young men were very skilled indeed.

But their personalities shone through all the more during combat, and not always in complimentary manners. Mordecai lost his bout when Valentio feignted him and caused a serious injury and an awful lot of blood across the training mats. The young man took it in good humour after he was healed, thanked Valentio for the match, and sat himself out, cheerfully asking Clarus if it was alright because watching the others would still be a good learning experience. Aulea liked him, if Cor didn't get the position then she would put him forward as her recommendation.

Drautos fought against Bile in a... surprisingly boring match if she were completely honest. Both of them were Royal Guard, so watching the pair trading blows as though it were little more than a practice match was a surprise, but then again, she supposed if they were displaying their technical skill then victory wasn't the goal. That was surprisingly clever of them. Neither of them won, they simply broke off, bowed to one another, and that was the end of their match. She could see how both Regis and His Royal Majesty would favour the two in their own way.

Cor and Valentio – that was swift and ruthless. Cor had him disarmed and on the floor in a single movement. The defeated alpha was not graceful in his defeat and stormed out of the training hall with gritted teeth and a bow to the Royal Family.

“Well,” His Majesty began, turning to his youngest charge, “Are you satisfied with what had been shown?” he enquired.

The omega hummed, “Not quite. There are two more things I would like to test,” he announced, causing looks to be exchanged between them. Aulea sat back in her seat, amused, because Harry never did things by halves, and if he was to have a Shield in his personal space at all times then undoubtedly there would be a question of it they could keep up.

“I believe I can speak for everyone when I say we are up to whatever challenge you have for us, your Highness,” Bile intoned with a respectful salute.

Harry merely hummed, “Then your first challenge is to fight me,” he announced, and suddenly summoned a pair of daggers to his hands, crouching ready and flaring his wings aggressively.

Both Drautos and Bile jerked in surprise, while Cor immediately summoned his sword to his hand and shifted a foot backwards ready.

Everyone in the hall froze, waiting for the next move, only for the omega to chuckle softly and stand up straight, “Nice to see one of you isn't a fucking moron,” he declared with a toss of his head as he whisked the daggers away.

“Y-your Highness?” Bile enquired while the King pinched the bridge of his nose in aggravated amusement.

The young Prince however merely sniffed, “What? Are you two going to flinch whenever an omega with a weapon challenges you? Will you hold back? Hesitate?” he demanded coldly, “Not good enough. I am an omega, most assassination attempts will come at me through _other omega_ as any alpha attempting to get into my personal space will be looked on automatically with more suspicion. Neither of you even summoned a weapon,” he scolded irritably as Cor slowly stood up straight and hesitantly banished his sword away, the tips of his ears going pink when the other two glanced at him.

“And the second challenge?” Drautos attempted to ask, but just a little too shortly, the lines of his face tightening when he realised his tone made it sound like a demand.

The Prince's smile was all teeth, “Catch me,” he said, and that time all three of them hesitated trying to make sense of what had just been said before the omega bolted – straight out of the nearest window.

Aulea burst out laughing as the three scrambled after him.

“Oh, Astrals, this is going to set the papers aflame,” Regis complained in amusement.

Clarus folded his arms and scowled, “They'd better mind their hands when they catch up,” he muttered darkly.

“_If_ they catch up,” the King amended with a sigh of exasperation. “I don't think anyone has managed to catch that boy in at least a year.”

“Two years, your Majesty,” Aulea corrected, covering her mouth with a hand, eyes dancing merrily. “Captain Scientia was the last one who managed it.”

* * *

Cor was _fairly_ certain there were rules about flying with royal omega! He just couldn't remember them right now because he was _trying_ to keep up!

When Otulissa said he was fast, he hadn't anticipated _this!!_

At least he wasn't leading them into on-coming traffic, Cor decided as they threaded their way through the skyscrapers of the city, heading directly out into the countryside. He can't see the other two but they were undoubtedly close by, Harry was ahead and below, flying hard and fast.

The objective was to catch him – which he would take over a fight any day, especially in front of the King. He was used to sparring with Regis, probably a little too much these days, their fights often got out of hand and drew blood, needing potion treatments once they were done. Somehow he didn't think cutting the Second Prince to ribbons would go very far in earning approval (he was fairly sure the omega would appreciate being treated as an equal, but Mors would likely demote him for being so rough on his charge).

He folded his wings and dove.

The Prince rolled in mid-air, sideslipping him with a smirk and a taunting 'try harder' as he sped past.

He spotted Bile and Drautos then, distant specks far behind them.

The Prince dove past him, tucking his wings in, and shot straight through a gap in the trees below. Cor cursed, recalling the omega's history as a resident of the Vesperpool – he would undoubtedly be harder to catch in the trees, and unlikely to leave them.

He dove in after him.

This was probably one way to even the playing field for them all.

He lost sight of the Prince amongst the trees, but found enough trail signs to have an idea of where he was going.

A few moments later, he spotted Drautos fly overhead, cursing colourfully and smirked a little at his contemporary's unhappiness. Being constantly compared to one another while serving in the army had naturally bred a little animosity between them, on top of that, Drautos was a refugee who seemed to think that Cor's own familial roots didn't matter at all since he had been born in Insomnia, and thus obviously had all of the same privileges as the middle-class citizens did as well. Sufficed to say, they did not get along. Cor had actually been looking forward to kicking his ass in the exhibition matches today. Bile he had no opinion on, he'd heard good things about the man, knew he would be a good Shield or Clarus wouldn't have invited him to the meeting. There were no buts. Manius Bile would be a good Shield. If he could keep up with his charge which, Cor assumed, was the whole point of this challenge. To find out who could keep up with him.

The trail-sign abruptly veered left and he followed, only for it to vanish at the foot of a rather large tree.

He hopped up into the lower branches, shifting his wings carefully until he spotted the Prince above him, watching him try to get closer with a smirk of amusement, “You know, you're the only one that thought to land and follow me on foot,” he pointed out, “The other two are on the other side of the forest.”

Cor debated on bringing it up but, honesty was probably the best policy.

“You weren't able to fly so well but managed to survive in the Vesper jungles and Myrlwood just fine. You being in the forest is to your advantage. You fly fast, but you're sneakier on foot,” he reasoned, and felt a small sting of pride and gratification at the considering tilt of the omega's head and the sharp smile he received.

“Not bad. You're more than just a pretty face,” he observed before he drew his feet up under him, “But you still haven't caught me.”

“Is anyone going to catch you?” he asked wryly, and startled a laugh out of the Prince.

“Who knows.” He tapped the scar on his forehead with an ugly smile, “People have caught up before,” he said before he threw himself into the air, and out of the tiny gap in the branches that Cor couldn't have been able to spot without the help. He scrambled through the branches and followed, ripping a few feathers loose in the process before he was airborn, spotting the Prince winging towards a distant lake while Bile and Drautos wheeled around to chase.

He flew high.

Harry was fast, but Cor was faster when it came to diving. He needed to come at the Prince from above to have a hope in hell of catching him, which meant he needed to choose his moment carefully while he was busy avoiding Bile and Drautos.

He watched as the two attempted to pincer the Prince between them and the young man flew circles around them, often literally, in some of the most impressive flying that Cor had ever seen. There was a moment when the young omega grabbed Drautos by a wing, used it as a pivot to swing his whole body up and around, landed on the alpha's back, and used him as a springboard to fly over a wild grab from Bile.

It was quite entertaining to watch as the Prince zig-zagged his way from the pair after successfully jinking to one side and causing the two to crash into each other.

Cor twisted so he would come in with the sun at his back, it wouldn't be a perfect angle, he wouldn't be hidden nor would he block it out, but many instinctively avoided looking in the direction of the sun when flying purely to protect their eyes. He didn't know if the Prince was the same, but it would be to Cor's advantage either way as he folded his wings and dove.

The wind whistled and burned at the tips of his ears, tearing at his clothing. Thank fuck for Crownsguard thermals.

They were over the lake.

Good

He wouldn't have to worry about slowing his descent.

The Prince didn't even see him coming, too busy looking over his shoulder at Drautos and Bile in the distance.

The startled yelp as Cor ploughed into him was incredibly satisfying.

Right before they hit the water.

He twisted in the water, keeping a tight grip on the Prince as he angled his body so the force of his dive had them swinging back up towards the surface where the Prince wheezed and coughed up half a lungful of lake water while cursing him out. Cor let him go, conscious of how he didn't like physical contact when they first met, and any potential accusations of impropriety while out without a chaperone.

The Prince shook his head out and dragged his hair from his face, “Fuck its _freezing_,” he complained before beginning to awkwardly swim to the closest shore. “Well done, Leonis. No one's caught me in two years,” he explained, teeth chattering, waterlogged wings dragging behind him.

His weren't much better as they reached a spray of rocks and gratefully climbed up. “I got lucky,” he admitted honestly.

Harry scoffed ruffling his wings violently to get rid of most of the water, he'd lost the pins keeping his hair back and now it hung down his face and shoulders in sopping wet rats tails that he wrung out while sitting down. “Luck, skill, either way, you caught me. So tell me Leonis, honestly, do you even want to be my Shield? Knowing that I will be accruing a number of incredibly pissed off alphas and traditionalists? That I'm in the middle of throwing Insomnia's culture into absolute disarray and changing hundreds of years of traditions if not outright breaking them? That you'll have your work cut out for you protecting me from not only Niflheim threats, but also upset Insomnian nobility, sometimes even Citadel staff?” he asked seriously, bracing one arm against his knee to look him dead in the eye. “Out of all the applicants, you were obviously the most reluctant. If my goals are something you disapprove of, then you need to speak up before this becomes a permanent arrangement. I've worked too long and too hard on protective legislation and omega rights to fail at the final hurdle,” he explained, looking up as both Drautos and Bile crested the treeline and began to wing their way over.

Cor chewed it over, “It isn't that. Antiope has shared some of what you've been planning and I support it whole heartedly. My hesitance is purely down to not wishing to cause further distress.” The omega's head snapped down to frown at him, he straightened up in response. “The way we dragged you to Insomnia was cruel. You would be perfectly within your rights to wish to never see a single one of us again. Just because Clarus and Regis want you to receive protection from someone they trust, doesn't mean that _you_ trust _me_, or would even want me near you. _That_ is the reason.”

The other two alphas landed and the Prince snorted as he got to his feet, still dripping wet, “Behind closed doors where the nobility can't see, I can call you a cock juggling thundercunt of a fucking moron, no problem,” he declared loudly, and Cor wasn't the only one to startle at the absurdly foul language, Drautos spluttered and Bile looked as though he were on the verge of a coronary. He pointed at the alpha, “Don't think for one _second_ that you and yours are forgiven for what happened at the Vesperpool. But if I was incapable of dealing with you, I would say so to your face. If you can do your job and stand by me, take my causes up as your own, then you've got a job, Leonis.

“What say you?” the Prince demanded, lifting his chin and extending a hand to him.

What could he say to that?

“Alright.”

He took the hand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *gestures helplessly* I still have no fucking clue what's going on?
> 
> I spent this chapter trying to foreshadow legislation and protective bills and laws and - look, trying to believably set out the building blocks for social justice movements and literal cultural revolution is _difficult_, and takes far too much time to properly enact in just fifteen pages OTL. Then Clarus wanted to display some character development, and Harry demanded a little well deserved Angst (as a treat), but have it treated as a genuine part of his life and not just a problem to be resolved so just like with actual people who have depression his bad days come and they go and they can be triggered by small things and even nothing at all. 
> 
> So, Harry now has a dedicated Shield in Cor. And, you would not believe how many rules I had to look up for royalty, like, some make sense but some are ridiculous, and a lot of them are purely because the current Monarch says so, so they're not technically rules so much as politely enforced personal opinions. So I now have a table of ridiculous rules that both alphas and omegas have to obey, and specific rules for each - like, female alphas aren't allowed to wear tiaras with jewels in them, and female omegas aren't allowed hair shorter than their jaw, but male omegas aren't allowed facial hair while alpha males can't carry bags. There's a lot of weird dumb laws Royals have to obey, like, married couples aren't even allowed to hold hands in reality, once they got married, you'll never see a british royal kiss or hug their spouse. So yeah.


	18. Burn Me In My Bones

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **WARNINGS:** Kidnapping, mentioned Child Abuse, Gay-Idiots-In-Love, Sirius Black’s Actual A+ Parenting 
> 
> **Summary:** Fawkes finds Harry and takes him home. Bringing the rest of the Retinue with him was just a bonus that’s going to drive the Gryffindor to Stress Ulcers as he tries to contain the situation.

Of all fucking times, the Empire had to find them _now_.

Cor threw himself over Harry’s unconscious form again, gritting his teeth as bullets panged off the shields conjured by Clarus and Regis overhead. Not even Cid cursing up a storm from the front seat about scratching the paint-work could inject any levity into his mood right now as he tightened his grip around the comatose hunter in his arms. For two days he had hovered at Harry’s bedside, biting his tongue as Clarus and Regis argued, as Weskham fretted; sat beside Cid who was the only useful one there, checking the hunter’s temperature, coaxing him into drinking a little more broth or water, cleaning him up when the inevitable bodily functions happened. 

There was another blurt of gunfire and the Regalia served violently. 

“This is doing nothing!” Regis cursed, banishing his gun back into the armiger to focus entirely on his magic as that was the only thing actually _reaching_ the airship shooting at them.

“Armour’s too thick!” Cid shouted from the front seat, as if they hadn’t already figured that out.

Harry moved, and it _wasn’t_ his imagination as the hunter slithered an arm out of his blankets to grab at Regis. He croaked something, glaring at them before clearing his throat, “Iron Assault. Give it to me,” he growled as he pushed at him.

It was the last thing he wanted, but the Iron Assault was possibly the only thing aside from actively _warping_ into the airship that would stop it, so he moved back, let Harry shrug off the blankets they stole from the caravan. He turned to the airship as the hunter paused, taking stock of himself, surprised that he was only in his boxers and a borrowed shirt (he was honestly lucky to even be in that, Cid and Weskham had bathed him earlier that morning). The airship swung down for another pass.

He dove at the hunter, “GET DOWN!” he bellowed yanking him down and covering him, feeling Regis do the same, arm around both of them as he summoned a shield over their heads. More bullets bounced off the Regalia and more cursing came from both Cid and Clarus as Harry squirmed furiously under him, snarling and elbowing at both him and Regis until he got free and grabbed the Iron Assault from the Prince’s hands.

If he hadn’t already been completely stupidly head over heels, watching the tiny dark haired hunter roughly using his own thigh to snap that _behemoth_ of a cannon into position, and then watch the flex of his biceps as he wrenched the bolt back. He would have definitely been gone, right then, right there. As it was, he already had.

“Can y’all even handle that in yer current state?!” Cid shouted from the front seat as Harry stood up straight and swung that monster around, forcing Regis to duck with a yelp before he got smacked in the side of the head.

The hunter braced one foot between the front two seats and stomped his other onto the headrest at the back, ignoring the old man as he unclipped a huge shell from one of the magazines and loaded it into the main chamber with a harsh palm-strike and a lot of metallic noises that - yeah, he was sixteen and very interested, this was not fair. His _bare _thigh was _right there practically under his nose_, and he was swinging around a rifle _as big as he was that weighed even more than he did_. Cor was a very simple man all things considered. Ignoring the airship and the bullets and the fact that people were trying to kill them, this felt like a personal attack on him right now, somehow, somewhere, in the back of his head that _wasn’t_ occupied with facts, figures, weapon stats, and those _goddamn thighs_.

“Cover your ears!” the hunter shouted as the vents on his rifle snapped shut and that familiar burning whine filled the air, energy gathering in the chamber. “MOVE!” he barked forcefully, glaring down at him.

He threw himself into the footwell, hands going over his ears, remembering the last time.

The concussive sound of the cannon going off was no less than last time, but what surprised him was the _force_ of it, the recoil. 

The way the Regalia _bounced_ off the damn road with the force of it.

Weskham swore, pulling on the steering wheel to try and keep control as the airship behind them exploded to a chorus of approval from Clarus and Regis. Cor sat up, twisting in place to see it hit the lip of a meteor crater, flip, and crash into the basin with a thunderous boom.

“HOLY SHIT!” Clarus yelled in disbelieving excitement even as Cor turned and watched in awe as the hunter hauled the cannon back up-right, the barrel _smoking_, and hauled on the bolt once more, twisting his head to one side as a smoking, spent, shell casing whipped out and then was sucked away out the back of the car, spinning away into the distance.

Overhead, the other airships pulled away, giving them more space and flying even higher, to what they _hoped_ would take them out of range of the gun. Buuuut, Cor remembered Balouve, and he _knew_ how good Harry’s aim was. He could take them. If he had the bullets.

“Nicely done, Harry!” Regis cheered, beaming as the young man pulled open the vents of his smoking gun, still looking like something out of one of his night-time fantasies.

“Where are we going?!” he asked.

“Away!” Weskham answered, glancing over his shoulder before turning his attention back to the road. “We didn’t exactly have a destination in mind! Where’s Kimya?!”

They had all been wondering that, worried out of their minds. The two were fairly inseparable, and, knowing what they did _now_ \- knowing that Kimya _had to have known_ \- why the hell was Harry being allowed to run around unescorted throughout Lucis? Why the _**fuck**_ was Ezma Auburnbrie allowing _both_ of them to go _anywhere_ on Eos without a protective Escort? Without even _telling Regis who Harry was?_ Cor had bitten his tongue and kept silent about the quiet conversations and tiny snippets of information Harry had confided in him, about his family, about his school and his childhood. That had been private. And Harry _trusted_ him. He had only just began to realise how important that was until then, now he knew. Because even though he had been living under Ezma Auburnbrie’s roof, he was almost _certain_ that the woman had no idea about Harry’s magic at all, in the slightest. He liked them a hell of a lot more than her, and he hadn’t even told _them_. Hadn’t told Cor, even though he had known for a while now.

“Schier Height’s Base!” the hunter shouted as he broke his rifle over his thigh and Cor _squirmed_, looking away.

“Why?!” Clarus demanded furiously, banishing his shield. He had been… the worst hit by the revelation that Harry had magic, that he was a Lucis Caelum. For the whole two days since they got Harry out of the Greyshire Grotto, after multiple potion applications failed, when even Hi-potions failed, Cor summoned an ether, their last one, and ignored both Clarus and Regis trying to stop him before he broke it over Harry’s chest, and watched as he opened his eyes for the first time, inhaling deeply and peering up at them with familiar hazy Stasis dull eyes before falling back asleep. Both Regis and Clarus had been arguing ever since, trying to come to terms with the obvious - that Harry was a Lucis Caelum.

“Commander wouldn’t let me stay!” he explained flatly finally taking his leg off the headrest and _closing his legs_. “Kept shoving a gun in my face, bitching about - ” he cut himself off, tilting his head.

Angry words died on Cor’s lips as he too heard it, the faint strains of bird-song on the wind but - not a _natural_ birdsong. It reverberated, it _lilted_ in a way that was incredibly unnatural, beautiful and ethereal, but _not_ natural. And it was getting louder, closer.

Harry twisted in place, “Fawkes?” he muttered, frowning and looking around.

“What?” Clarus demanded, glancing at him before looking around for the source of the song.

“He’s - a friend, FAWKES!” he yelled, cupping his hands over his mouth.

The song stopped abruptly.

“FAWKES! I’M OVER HERE! Weskham, stop, please - ”

The Retainer shook his head with gritted teeth, “I am sorry, Harry. I can’t. Not with His Royal Highness’s life on the line and airships on our heels!” he called over the whipping wind.

“_FAWKES!_” Harry’s voice rose in recognition and delight.

And Cor saw what he was looking at.

“Is - is that _Phoenix_?” he choked, staring in stunned disbelief at Ifrit’s favoured Astral Messenger as it winged through the blue sky and straight down at them, bursting into song _and fire_.

He dragged Harry back into the car by his waist, horrified.

Ifrit’s rampage killed his own messengers, and Phoenix had been the one to scorch Tenebrae and raise it again from the ashes. _It should not be alive_.

“Get off me!” Harry yelped, squirming under him, “It’s Fawkes! He’s a friend, I promise! Cor! He won’t hurt us, I swear! He’s not a monster or a fiend!” he pleaded, glancing between him and the approaching bird with a pained expression. “Please he - he’s the only reason I’m _alive_ right now! He won’t hurt me!”

The bird dove into the car, and everything turned into fire and light and birdsong.

And then _cold_.

Weskham yelled and swore, slamming the breaks on.

Clarus yelped, toppling and falling into the footwell, slamming his head onto the back of the seats, both Harry and Cor slid into the footwell with yelps, and Regis landed on top of them, accidentally kneeing Cor in the side of the head as he went down. It sounded like Cid hit the dashboard and actually hurt himself judging by the howl, and Weskham just had a heart attack.

The car stopped.

“What - Y-Your Highness, are you alright? Regis?” Weskham demanded, twisting in place to look over at them.

“I - I am fine, Weskham,” the Prince managed as he quickly pulled away from both Cor and Harry in the footwell.

“Yea, don’ worry ‘bout th’ rest a’us Wesk, we’re peachy. _Oh!_ My achin’ _back!_” Cid moaned in genuine pain, his face twisted in agony.

“Oh, Cid, I am so sorry. Give me a - there, a potion, move your arm,” the Retainer babbled, frazzled as he summoned the item to hand and broke it over the mechanic’s lower back where he ended up slamming into the dashboard.

“Where… the hell are we?” Clarus asked faintly, looking around them.

Cor sat up, moving gingerly because his head was killing him. He could feel Harry’s arms around him, keeping him steady, and knew the exact moment when he realised where they were, when he froze, and his breath stuttered strangely in his chest.

“...Home. We’re - I’m… I’m home,” he said distantly.

Phoenix chirped smugly behind them.

  
  


* * *

  
  


Hogwarts was covered in snow, they had skidded to a stop in the middle of the school grounds, not far from the lake, in the middle of the lawn. He could see torch-light in the corridors already, and there was an owl circling Ravenclaw tower.

If his breathing was shaky and a little wet, Cor was kind enough not to say anything.

Cor - Hogwarts - _no!_

“FAWKES!” he yelped, whipping around to glare at the phoenix, “You have to send them back!”

The bird sang happily and took wing.

“FAWKES YOU CAN’T JUST KIDNAP ROYALTY!” he yelled, springing up to try and catch him only for the ruddy chicken to flame out - likely straight to Professor Dumbledore’s office. He dragged both hands through his hair, “Fuck. Fuck-fuck-_fuck_,” he moaned. This was like, next level _bad_. Cor and the rest of the Retinue here, in his world, _world-travellers_ here, in his world, the first of their kind, in the middle of the war, and the Ministry keeping fucking brains in JARS. 

“Harry, calm yourself,” Regis soothed, placing a hand on his shoulder. 

“No - you don’t - you don’t understand I - I wasn’t exactly _honest_ about - I let you draw your own conclusions - we’re not in _Ulwaat_,” he stuttered nervously.

Clarus hauled himself out of the Regalia and landed outside, boots crunching in the snow. “Figured that one out, Snowflake. The snow gave it away. What part of Niflheim is this?” he asked looking around and up at the castle with a thoughtful frown.

“It _isn’t_,” Harry moaned rubbing his face. “This isn’t Niflheim, Ulwaat, Tenebrae, Lucis, _or_ Accordo. Look. Just - this isn’t - my government had a lot of… experimental stuff. I kinda broke some of it, got into a fight in their research labs. I don’t _remember_ what happened. Concussion. This - _this isn’t Eos_,” he blurted, making everyone in the car stop and look at him. He pulled on his hair and rubbed his face again. “This isn’t Eos. It’s Earth. We don’t have Astrals here, we don’t have fiends, or daemons. People don’t run around with swords, and royalty is - _archaic_. Yes, we have a Queen, but she isn’t involved with Governance anymore. Parliament is. Voted in officials. And they’re _always_ looking for power-grabs, advantages, and - you _can’t_ tell anyone you’re from Eos. You _can’t_. I don’t know what they’ll do to you! They had human brains in fucking _jars!_” He was freaking out. How embarrassing. The Department of Mysteries may have featured in a few nightmares in new and horrible ways and the thought of the Retinue being under the Ministry’s thumb, knowing what he did, would they even be classed as human? Regis had magic but none of the others were born with it, hell, Regis’ family line were _blessed_ with magic, their blood was still muggle - would the Ministry even give them Being classification? Could they use the differences in their magic, the way Regis gave his magic to them, in order to basically turn their very existence illegal and arrest them, purebloods were always freaking out about how muggleborns _stole_ magic, if they found out that it was actually fucking possible that a magical could _give_ or _share_ their magic with other humans there would be a fucking uproar, aND -

Cor yanked him down, gripping the back of his head in one arm and pressing it into his shoulder, “You’re panicking. Stop. Breathe,” he ordered and _fuck him the utter fucking bastard he had legitimate fucking concerns here_, Harry did as he was told. 

He took a deep breath and pulled back, shivering as a frigid wind whipped past, feeling the hand on the back of his head smooth down his neck to rest on his back. He took another breath, and then slumped in place as Cor rubbed his back. "Just…. You guys aren't the only ones at war, and your particular brand of magic makes things complicated," he explained tiredly, rubbing his face again.

"Brand?" Cor asked quietly, sliding his hand from the back of his neck down his spine and back up again. Harry tried not to read into the fact that the Retinue seemed to have taken a step back in dealing with him, leaving it to Cor, even though Regis _hovered_ next to them, looking anxious and sad. Like a kicking puppy. It was intensely aggravating actually.

He dragged a hand through his hair, "The purebloods will flip their collective shit if they find out that none of you are natural born magic users. Regis gets his through pacts his family swore generations ago, and the rest of you have it from swearing fealty to him," he summed up dismally, "We _don't. _We're born with it. And there's this… racial thing about children born with magic whose parents don't have it being accused of stealing it from pure pureblood kids who _don't _have magic. They know it's bollocks, we know it’s bollocks, but if they find out it's _possible_\- "

Cor grimaced, bowing his head into Harry's shoulder and nudging him, "It'll cause a mess."

"To put it mildly," he moaned, casting look up at the castle. "I don't - I don't even know what kind of reception we'll have…" he trailed off, biting his lip, and then shivering when a cold wind swept past.

Regis summoned his jeans and boots to hand, "Here. Clothe yourself before you catch your death," he said before climbing out of the car to join Cid who was already crouched at the back of the Regalia checking the bullet holes. Cor stole his chance to press a kiss to the side of his forehead before following him and Harry tried not to flinch, glancing nervously up at the castle before dragging his jeans on.

He was fairly sure Fawkes wouldn't have brought them back to Hogwarts if Dumbledore weren't there, but it had been _months_, and Harry had broken into the Ministry, destroyed and damaged who knew how many experiments in the Department of Mysteries, tricked Umbridge into being abducted by Centaurs, and run and illegal defence club. Given how the Ministry had been treating him before he didn’t hold much hope out about him _not_ receiving the blame for those damages, and throw in Voldemort and the Death Eaters on top of that… he needed to have an idea of what he was walking into before he brought the Retinue in there.

Hagrid. 

He would see if Hagrid was back. If Dumbledore was back then Hagrid would be as well, and Hagrid would let him know about anything he needed to know or was dangerous before he walked into it face first. The question now was… did he have a lesson? Could Harry get his attention without any of the other students seeing him? He didn’t know what month it was, let alone day of the week. If he was lucky it would be a Sunday. It looked around lunch time so everyone would be in the Great Hall or at pre/post-lunch lessons. Ugh, his Kingdom for a wand and a tempus charm right now.

He shoved the blankets out of his way, and grabbed the Iron Assault as he climbed out, "Right," he said, wincing and shivering as he stepped into the calf high snow. "My Care of Magical Creatures Professor lives in a cottage on the school grounds. We should stop off with him first to let him know about the car," he said as he slung it over his back.

The Retinue exchanged looks and Regis nodded to him, "We will follow your lead, Harry. We are in your care," he said with a kind smile.

Harry winced and gave them a weak smile, "I'll… I'll do my best," he promised miserably before moving past them, hearing Weskham raising the roof of the Regalia and locking it behind them as he lead the way down the lawn towards the edge of the Forbidden Forest where Hagrid had his hut and his vegetable patch and the paddocks where he kept the animals for their Care classes. Already at this distance he could see the thin trail of chimney smoke against the grey horizon, so at least he was living there, that was good. Or perhaps the house-elves were keeping the fire going so poor Fang didn’t freeze to death...

He froze to see the stormy grey hippogriff happily rolling a pumpkin between its talons at the entrance of the vegetable patch. The creature looked up and chirped happily to see him. He found himself bowing mechanically on reflex, waiting until he received one himself before taking a single step closer and having the majestic creature get to its feet and shove its head against his chest, crooning in demand for affection.

"Buckbeak, what are you doing here?" he asked weakly, running fingers through his feathers. "You're supposed to be hiding out with Sirius."

"Harry?" Regis asked from the fence line of the vegetable patch, looking wary.

He shook himself, "Ah. Right. This is Buckbeak, he's a hippogriff. They're very intelligent and proud creatures," he explained, smiling a little as Buckbeak chirped and nearly pushed him over. "I'm just surprised he's here. He's technically stolen goods. Sirius ran off with him a few years ago," he explained giving the bird another pat before scooping up one of the smaller pumpkins and throwing it down the hill for the bird-horse to lunge after. "This way."

Hagrid's hut was a sight for sore eyes, painfully nostalgic and missed and yet… slightly embarrassing. He was taking _literally_ Royalty to a gamekeeper hut at the edge of a castle. But at the same time, it was a home, it was a place he had always associated with comfort and safety, despite Hagrid's tendency for dangerous pets. He couldn't help but run the last few steps on the path, feet finding the flagstone even under the mud and snow and frozen grass to hammer on the door.

Immediately Fang started barking and he couldn't help but laugh at the very familiar sound of his first ever friend getting to his feet and hurrying to the door.

"Back! Back, Fang, back!" He commanded, the sound of claws scraping on wood filling the air as Hagrid hauled him back by his collar and fumbled with the door. "Who - _Harry?_" 

  
  


* * *

  
  


"By the _Six_," Weskham blurted when the door opened and _Clarus agreed entirely holy shit what did they __feed_ _people here?!!_

The man that answered the door was twice _Clarus'_ height and probably twice his weight again, wearing a floral apron, a blue flannel shirt and brown work-trousers, bearing a thick wild thatch of hair and a full bushy beard unlike _anything_ any of them had ever seen. He completely dwarfed Harry, an equally huge dog struggling in his hand as he gaped at the tiny hunter.

"Hi Hagrid, sorry I'm late," the teenager greeted gently, apologetically.

The man _howled_ like a wounded animal, making all of them jolt and reach for weapons a split second before he dropped to his knees and flung his arms around the teenager, dragging him bodily into a crushing hug, absolutely _wailing_ his heart out. Sobbing and clinging to the sixteen year old while his dog barked and bounced around them, jumping up and licking at their faces.

Harry just laughed, hugging him back. He was completely dwarfed by the huge man, in his comically out of place floral apron.

Clarus stared at the spectacle as Harry bent over the huge man’s head and hugged him tightly, eyes squeezing shut in relief and guilt. He said this was his _teacher_. Somehow… he really doubted it. Especially given how he flinched from loud noises and shied from physical contact and yet this _\- giant_ not only bellowed but also put his steering wheel sized hands all over him without incident. Then his words became a little more coherent, and Clarus winced. Ah. A friend of his parents. He must have known Harry for a long time then.

The hunter was trying to calm him down, assuring him it wasn’t his fault there was nothing he could have done, staying would have just had him thrown in prison.

Clarus exchanged a look with Regis and Weskham, just what kind of people were Harry involved with?

“Hagrid, I need your help, please?” the hunter asked, giving the dog licking his ear a shove to one side as the huge man pulled away and dragged a white and yellow tablecloth sized hanky from his pocket to wipe his face and blow his nose on. “What’s the situation at the castle?” he asked warily, gesturing at them, “Fawkes grabbed up other people and I don’t want to take them in if it’s Umbridge up there.”

Shockingly _kind_ dark eyes peered up from under bushy dark hair, he sniffled a little eyeing them as he got to his feet, “Professor Dumbledore’s back. Ministry couldn’ hide from th’truth anymore. Not with Professor Dumbledore gettin’ int’a Duel with You Know Who righ’ in th’Atrium. Everyone saw ‘im. An’ with how Sirius reacted when Hermione told ‘im yeh wen’ missin’, weren’ many Death Eaters what got away,” he explained, roughly mopping himself up. “Fang, leave it!” he called, causing the huge canine that had been slinking closer to them to quickly bound right back to Harry and jump up, pressing paws to his shoulders and trying to lick his face. Clarus pressed his lips against a grin as the hunter spluttered and tried to shove the huge animal off him, or at least hide his face. The dog’s owner ignored it. Instead, he hit his forehead with some… _considerable_ force. “Gulpin’ Gargoyles, where’s ma manners? Would yeh all like ter come in fer some tea? It’s freezin’ out here an’ after everythin’ what happened last year I know Harry won’ be keen on takin’ yeh up to th’ Castle until ‘e knows it’s safe.”

Regis smiled, “That’s very kind of you, thank you.”

The big guy blushed under his whiskery beard and Harry turned to beam at them, which only made Regis smile back, pleased at what had obviously been the right thing to say.

The cottage was… just as rustic inside as it was outside, and everything in there was clearly made with its owner in mind, Clarus felt particularly out of place as he and the others were ushered into seats, Harry quietly muttering an aside not to eat the food or risk their teeth. The dog, Fang, who was clearly as threatening as his owner, plopped himself in front of Harry who sat perched on the massive bed covered in crochet multicoloured blankets and proceeded to drool across the sixteen year old’s knee while giving him soulful begging eyes until he received pets, tail swishing gently across the wooden floor.

The large man quickly went about making them all a cup of tea, asking after preferences which very few of them had because absolutely none of them knew what kind of tea was being made. Milk and sugar? Honey? 

Harry coughed a little, “It’s black tea. Sorry. I forgot you have - yeah,” he explained a little sheepishly.

Hagrid hummed, “I can put on summat else if yeh’d prefer? I think I’ve got some mint tea, chamomile, I still have some o’th’rose tea I made a few years ago,” he admitted giving a small jar of dried leaves and flowers a thoughtful shake.

Weskham smiled, “Black tea is fine. Would you like some help?” he asked glancing at Regis.

Hagrid waved him off, “Don’ worry ‘bout it. Number o’students who sneak down fer tea-time instead’a studying - ”

“Hey!” Harry squawked, offended, and getting a wide grin from the huge man.

“- or t’visit an’ old man when ‘e’s bein’ a fool, is more than yeh’d think. I can handle a lotta guests,” he concluded, making the hunter subside with a grumble and go back to fussing the dog.

“So, you’ve known Harry for a long time then?” Regis asked hopefully, smiling and then staring in mixed horror and amusement at the two-pint mug he was presented with, thankfully only _half_ full of tea.

Hagrid nodded as he served up mugs of tea to everyone, “Since ‘e was a wee baby. Carried ‘im all the way from Godric’s Hallow t’Surrey th’night his parents died, bless them,” he explained sadly as he handed a mug of tea, already doctored with milk and sugar, to the hunter in question. “Fell asleep righ’ as we was flyin’ over Bristol. Such a tiny little thing, barely cried at all once I had hold of ‘im, right little cuddle bug,” he said fondly, gently touching the teenager’s shoulder before turning and handing Cor a mug of tea himself. “I was th’one ter go an’ pick ‘im up again fer school later. Begged Professor Dumbledore fer it. Wanted ter make sure that great _prune_ of a muggle was treatin’ ‘im right.” His face clouded over then, and Clarus felt himself go tense as the formerly kind giant suddenly became _very_ threatening. 

“Hagrid…” Harry interrupted quietly, looking a little nervous, “What happened at the Ministry? Are Ron and Hermione alright?” he asked anxiously, keeping a tight grip on his tea.

The big guy glanced at him and then sighed, making the hunter’s face pale by degrees as he swallowed. “They’re alrigh’. Torn up and shaken. They ain’t handlin’ yer disappearance well. Don’t think Hermione’s left the library since she got back, an’ Ron keeps gettin’ inter detention fer fightin’ with Slytherins. I know Hermione took a nasty curse t’th’chest. She’s been in an’ outta th’Hospital Wing fer a while, she should be on her last course of potions now. Ron had ter go to St Mungos fer a bit.”

Harry stiffened, making a wounded noise, and would have nearly dropped his mug if Cor hadn’t quickly reached over and took it out of his hands. Hagrid nodded gravely at the look on his face.

“Don’ rightly know what ‘e touched in there, but ‘e’s got some nasty scars up ‘is arms an’ sometimes ‘e goes a bit strange. Acts like a completely different person. Neville got a broken nose, but that’s about it as far as I know fer ‘im. Little Miss Ginny took a cruciatus before yer godfather intervened, she’s okay, more angry than anythin’. Miss Lovegood spent a while in the Hospital Wing, nearly broke ‘er back.

“They all survived. Which fer teenagers goin’ against cold blooded killers like them was th’best scenario any o’us could’a hoped fer. So don’ you go blamin’ yerself, Harry,” he scolded, pointing a huge finger into the sixteen year old’s face.

He shook his head, “I lead them into a trap, Hagrid. It was my fault. It was _all_ my fault.”

“Hermione told me yeh tried ter warn Snape. That yeh got caught breakin’ inter Umbridge’s office ter use the floo t’contact Headquarters an’ that Kreacher lied. Yeh did everythin’ yeh could. Sirius is import- ah, supposed I should warn yeh now, thinkin’ about it,” he said, interrupting himself, making the hunter look up. “‘E’s here. Sirius. Took the Defence Against The Dark Arts job so ‘e could be close by an’ bother Dumbledore until yeh were found,” he explained with a grin as Harry sat up straight and looked out of the window to the castle. “Ministry cleared ‘im o’all charges when Dumbledore put th’word out. First thing Hermione did when she woke up was testify ter the Aurors from ‘er hospital bed about what happened that night in th’Shriekin’ Shack. Which,” his faced darkened and he pointed at Harry’s face again, “_Why in th’seven hells didn’ any o’yeh come an’get me?!_” he thundered, making Harry lean back on the bed with wide eyes. “I was five minutes away, Harry! Yeh think a dog, any kind of dog, would’a stopped me from protectin’ yeh three?”

Harry cringed, “The Minister - ”

The giant scoffed, “I’d a’thrown ‘im th’cabbage patch inna heartbeat if yeh needed me. Don’ do that again! Or I’ll give yeh yer first detention from me, got it?” he warned, shaking his finger at him.

Harry had _clearly_ never been scolded by Hagrid before, and Clarus was loving how confused and out of his depth the hunter looked. “Y-yes Hagrid. I’m sorry,” the teenager managed to choke out, looking at them for help. Clarus leaned back in his seat with a grin and toasted him with his mug, Regis winced a little in sympathy but otherwise just smiled, Weskham raised an eyebrow at him, and Cid outright laughed at him. 

There was an uneven tapping at the windows.

Hagrid turned away with a frown. “Now who could tha’ be? S’too late fer th’paper,” he commented heading over.

“Paper?” Cor asked looking at the hunter with a small frown.

Harry wrinkled his nose, “Owl post. Magic doesn’t really work well around technology here, so we don’t have phones. Mail is generally delivered by messenger owls who - ” His voice died down as he looked over Cor’s shoulder and immediately got to his feet.

Clarus glanced over curiously and paused to see the absolutely beautiful snow white and black patterned bird on Hagrid’s forearm as he closed the door, bright golden coloured eyes turned and the bird immediately took wing and fluttered straight to the hunter who looked actually on the verge of tears to see it. He lifted a forearm for it and the bird landed with barely a whisper before it started to croon and squeak, fluffing itself up before he curled an arm around it and huffed a shaky laugh as he bowed his head close enough for the bird to decide it would rather eat his hair while sat on his shoulder than his arm.

He didn’t see the appeal but the way the sixteen year old acted, he could tell that the bird was very much a beloved pet.

“She’s bin flyin’ around th’whole castle almost every day. Pops in fer a bit o’bacon every now an’ again,” the large man explained as he beamed to see them.

“Hermione didn’t - ” he tried to ask only for Hagrid to shake his head.

“She wouldn’ come down from the rafters fer it. An’ any o’th’elves what got close got a nip.” He chuckled, “Should’a seen the number a’feathers she tore outta Fawkes when ‘e dropped in.”

Clarus exchanged an alarmed look with Regis. Ripping feathers out of Phoenix?! Just what kind of pet did Harry _have?_

The bird crooned and ruffled herself up, nibbling at his ear, and then picking at the strap for his glasses curiously, squeaking. Harry didn’t seem to know what to say, stroking her breast feathers almost reverently, smiling crookedly before he caught sight of them watching him from the corner of his eye and went pink, coughing a little and looking away, even if he didn’t stop stroking her.

“Fawkes brought us all with their car, it’s parked on the lawn next to the Lake. Can it stay there or should we move it?” he managed to ask before looking at the huge man.

“Car?” the hairy man echoed, stroking his beard and looking thoughtful. “Should be fine. Th’Thestrals don’ really leave the forest an’ I doubt any o’the students’ll be wantin’ ter run around in the snow this far out.”

Harry nodded, glancing at the clock on the mantle-piece above the fire, “End of lunch… we should give it another ten minutes before heading in otherwise we won’t get any further than the entrance hall.”

“Why not?” Cid asked gruffly setting his empty mug of tea down.

Hagrid snorted, “Yeh didn’ tell ‘em?” he asked in surprise.

Clarus got to his feet, “Tell us what?” he demanded, making Harry flinch a little and look away, he stayed quiet, stroking his owl.

“Harry here’s famous,” the big man announced proudly, dropping a hand onto his unoccupied shoulder, “Stopped the war fifteen years ago. He survived what no one else in our history ever did. An’ - _oh_.” His face went white. “_Oh no, yeh don’ know_,” he said looking down at the hunter with wide eyes. 

Harry frowned at him, “Know what?” he asked suspiciously.

“That’s - not fer me ter be tellin’ yeh,” he blurted, pulling away and beginning to wring his hands in distress. “Dumbledore’ll tell yeh. He’ll explain it right better than I can.”

“Hagrid - please, Dumbledore has been _less_ than particularly informative about absolutely _everything_,” Harry snapped pleadingly, catching his hand, “Tell me. Just - at least give me the bare bones? He can fill in the blanks. What’s going on?”

  
  


* * *

  
  


“Harry! Harry, slow down, _please!_ Before we lose Cid!” Regis begged, panting harshly as he tried to keep up with the young man as he sprinted through twisting castle corridors and up far more flights of stairs than any building had any right possessing without a lift. He tried not to let his own panic and twisting churning thoughts distract him as the momentary distraction his voice caused allowed Cor to catch up and physically _stop_ his little cousin before they completely lost him, and thus themselves, in this fantastically impossible building (the staircases were moving, the paintings were moving, the SUITS OF ARMOUR were moving!).

His cousin was pale and flushed all at once, those lovely leaf-green eyes practically dominating his scarred face as he panted at the top of the stairs, wrist firmly in Cor’s grasp as the rest of them raced up the stairs behind him. And it was no wonder he looked so distressed.

‘_Chosen One_’ indeed. 

Regis certainly had some words for whomever decided to lay an entire war at the feet of a single sixteen year old civilian and chose to inform the Media before informing the young man in question. Never mind _never_ raising him to such a position or task in the first place!

He would most certainly be having a very long _conversation_ with this Professor Dumbledore, and he could already see both Clarus, Weskham, and Cid swelling up with opinions and words of their own. Cor? Astrals only knew what was running through his head. He had been _very_ quiet since both Harry and Kimya had left previously and he didn’t seem particularly inclined to change that right now. Cid had been the only one he had spoken to with any particular warmth since Leide.

The two teenagers waiting with particular impatience, especially in Harry’s case, as Cid caught up with them, complaining bitterly about his back and the sheer number of stairs. 

Then they heard the unmistakable sound of someone blowing a raspberry and Harry went even paler.

“OOH IT'S ITTY POTTY POTS!!”

And then he went bright red.

Right before he paled again as Cor yelped and summoned genji to stab at the strange wraith that bounced around the corner like a child’s ball.

“NO!” Harry yelped, jumping on him.

“OI!” the wraith squawked, bending double and sliding under the swordswing to ping off a step and into the air. It - _he_ was like no daemon that Regis had ever seen. Undeniably shaped like a little man, he wore bright orange, red, and green clothing, a hat with bells, and had a wicked little face and bright orange eyes.

“It’s just Peeves, he’s a poltergeist, he isn’t - he _is_ dangerous, but he won’t actually attack us!” Harry promised, “Put the sword away, _please!_” he begged casting a glance up at the floating little man.

Cor gave him a sour pained look but did as he was told and, Regis would find time later to be thoroughly amused by how tightly Harry seemed to have hold of his bodyguard’s leash, and completely unknowingly at that, but right now he was a little alarmed by this strange floating orange man. “Ah, good evening, Master Peeves, was it? I apologise for my bodyguard’s slight. He meant no offence,” he interjected quickly, bringing the little man’s attention back to him.

Harry wriggled himself free of Cor’s grip, “Peeves, is Professor Dumbledore in his office?” he asked.

The little man rolled over in mid-air and fluttered suddenly comically overlong eyelashes at him, like a cartoon character, “Do you have an _appointment?_ Did a _Professor_ send you?” he asked slyly.

“I’ll give you a bag of Zonkos best extra strength dungbombs next time I go to Hogsmeade,” Harry offered.

“He is expecting you in his office,” the little man informed them all solemnly.

Harry grinned, “Thanks Peeves.”

The little man blew a loud raspberry and then zoomed off through the air cackling and singing about ‘Itty Bitty Potty Pots Pooping Up a Storm, Stirring the Pot, and Popping Out Of the Loo’. Regis coughed a laugh at the childish song while Harry shook his head and started up the stairs again - thankfully more slowly this time.

“Are there many like Peeves?” he found himself asking as they jogged up another flight of stairs and down a corridor.

“Like Peeves? None. We have other Ghosts though,” he explained, pulling aside a decorative wall tapestry to reveal a hidden corridor that made both Cor and Clarus make interested and excited noises.

“Ghosts?” Weskham prompted as they followed the young man through and then _down_ a flight of stairs that annoyingly moved while they were on them.

Harry nodded, unperturbed by the movement, “Yeah. There’s quite a lot actually. Nearly Headless Nick is ours,” he explained.

Clarus spluttered, “_Nearly_ Headless? How can you be _nearly_ headless?!” he blurted, and Harry laughed. 

“That’s exactly the same thing Ron said, right before Nick showed him. He was beheaded a few centuries ago, but the axe was blunt so - yeah. He’s _nearly_ headless, and very upset about it too. There’s a lot of headless ghosts and they’ve set themselves up a social club called the Headless Hunt. They throw a lot of parties and play games with their own severed heads so Nick was quite put out when they rejected his application again,” he explained with a smile as if the conversation subject wasn’t absolutely ghoulish as they came to a stop in front of an ugly daemonic statue. 

“He’s expecting you,” the statue told him roughly and stepped aside, revealing a passageway.

“Thank you,” Harry said as he stepped inside and made space for them to follow, then the stairs began to move.

“You have escalators?! And you had us take the stairs?” Clarus demanded in offence. 

“Only this staircase does it,” Harry told them with a grin as they went up.

“What about the other ghosts?” Cor asked quietly.

Harry blinked at him before flushing, “Ah, um, there’s Nick, I’ve mentioned him. You met Peeves. There’s the Fat Friar, he’s the Hufflepuff House Ghost. He’s really jolly and friendly. He was a - a monk, a religious man? Apparently he was executed for helping people with magic when he shouldn’t have. There’s the Grey Lady, she’s the Ravenclaw House Ghost. She doesn’t really like talking to people though. Rumour has it she was murdered by her husband because she discovered some ultimate secret of magic and he wanted to steal her research but in the end couldn’t decode it. There’s the Bloody Baron, he’s Slytherin House’s Ghost and - no one knows anything about him. He’s not the friendliest. You can recognise him as the one covered in bloodstains. And then there’s Myrtle.”

“Myrtle?” Regis asked as they came to a door with a large eagle headed knocker at the top of the stairs.

Harry nodded with a nervous hum. “She was a student who was murdered fifty years ago. Hagrid was blamed for it but we proved it wasn’t him a few years ago. That’s why he’s allowed to be a teacher now. She usually hides in the girls’ bathroom on the second floor. She’s nice. But eternal hormones are a bit…”

Everyone winced.

He raised a hand to knock on the door.

“Harry, my boy, come in!” an old man’s voice called kindly through the door before his knuckles made contact. His cousin shook his head, his expression complicated as he muttered about that being his favourite trick before stepping into a beautiful circular room with an awful lot of red furnishings. There was a number of rather attentive muttering portraits lining the room, a roaring fireplace, and, as he looked around, he saw what _must_ have been the Professor Dumbledore that Harry held in such high esteem gathering up what was unmistakably phoenix feathers from around a perch that a rather grumpy Hedwig was now occupying.

“At the rate the lovely Miss Hedwig is ripping poor Fawkes’ feathers out, I feel I may have to start charging Ollivander for their use so I can obtain some phoenix friendly bruise balm,” the old man informed them almost jovially as they came in. He had his back to them as he busily took the gathered feathers and set them on his desk, pausing for a moment to Regis’ discerning eye to brace himself and take a breath before turning around.

Harry took a step forward, “Professor - ” And his words died abruptly when the old man hugged him.

“I am _so_. _Very. _Sorry, my boy. I should have been here for you when you needed me most. I have failed you in the most unforgivable way,” he said, his tall thin frame bending over to hug the startled teenager tightly.

Harry squirmed, shoulders drawn up with discomfort in that way he usually was when physical contact was brought into the equation, in the way that he didn’t with Mister Hagrid, or Cor, or Kimya. And yet was with this man? Arguably the one he respected the most out of everyone in his life? He patted the old man’s back awkwardly.

“It’s - you got there in time to save the others. It’s fine. As long as they’re alright, it’s fine,” he managed to say and Regis had to tuck his hands behind his back to hide how they balled into fists. 

The old man gave his cousin a small squeeze before stepping back and then looking them all with unnaturally twinkling blue eyes, “I see you brought guests home with you,” he said kindly.

Harry winced, “Fawkes grabbed me along with everyone else. Professor, we have to send them back.”

“Why don’t you introduce me first?” he suggested with a small smile.

His cousin grimaced and looked helplessly at them.

Weskham cleared his throat, “Presenting His Royal Highness, Crown Prince of Lucis, Regis Lucis Caelum, the One Hundredth and Thirteenth, First In Line for the Throne of Light Before the Crystal,” he announced formally as the rest of the Retinue seamlessly fell into place and twisted their hands over their hearts as was expected before their monarch.

He was quite gratified to see how the good Professor’s eyes went wide with alarm and his smile became decidedly more fixed.

Regis nodded slightly to him, his face impassive, “Professor Dumbledore, Harry has said nothing but good things about you. Allow me to introduce my Retinue,” he declared as his men stepped out of their positions and stood at ease behind him. “Lord Clarus Amacitia of the Noble Amacitia House, my Sworn Shield.” His oldest friend stepped forward, bowed his head slightly and then set back. “Lord Weskham Armaugh of the Tenebraean Armaugh Noble House, my personal Retainer and Royal Hand.” Weskham gave the Professor his picture perfect butler smile, bowed at the waist, and then proceeded to vanish into the background of the proceedings. “Master Cid Sophiar, my father’s Mechanic on Retainer.” The old grinch tilted the bill of his cap up and gave the Professor a dirty look up and down, his lip curling with disapproval. “And Staff Sergeant Cor Leonis, Lucian Royal Army, eight hundred and fifteenth, Ground Division. My father, His Royal Majesty King Mors’ personal bodyguard, on attachment with my Retinue for the foreseeable future.” Cor nodded shortly, giving the same salute they all did earlier, stood to attention, before stepping back and lowering his hand.

The Professor eyed Cor with dismay, “So young?” he asked sadly.

“I have earned my rank,” Cor informed him with frosty pride, and Harry winced a little behind the Professor who nodded slowly, looking pained.

“Professor, Fawkes kidnapped Royalty and they’re in the middle of a war, we need to send them back,” Harry insisted again.

The old man nodded, looking troubled, “Of course. As soon as Fawkes returns I will beg his aid, but - Fawkes is a very proud being with his own mind. I do not control him. I may ask, and he may _choose_ to refuse. I do apologise for the inconvenience, Your Highness,” he demurred with the shadow of an uncomfortable grimace and weirdly twinkling blue eyes.

Regis allowed his own smile to be stiff, speaking some empty useless phrase of gratitude. He _wanted_ to like this old man that Harry respected so much, that his young cousin had built his own moral centre around the teachings of, but he had been playing the politics game at his father’s knee before he had even obtained proper bladder control. He knew the look of a man with plans upon plans within plans, that trusted few, confided in fewer, and took counsel from no one but himself. And he could definitely tell that this Professor Dumbledore was not pleased, yet unsurprised, by how much Harry cared for them. No doubt he would be even more displeased when he learned that such affection was wholeheartedly reciprocated. For all the headaches, heartache, heart_burn_, Harry was very easy to love when he wasn’t going out of his way to be a pain in the ass. He was a good boy.

“ - the opportunity to learn more about Harry is much appreciated, and I thoroughly look forward to meeting his friends and family after hearing so much about them,” he continued, empty words learned by rote falling away into genuine glee as he turned a smile to the young hunter and watched him smile in obvious happiness at the thought of introducing them to everyone, and then horror when he realised the implications of introducing them to everyone. The _blackmail_. Of which Regis would most _definitely_ be ferreting out as much as he could.

Professor Dumbledore smiled woodenly, “I am afraid those introductions will have to wait some time. Harry must return to his relatives.”

The hunter stiffened with something remarkably like betrayal on his face, “What?”

“The wards, my boy. We managed to keep them functioning, but they are hanging by a thread. You need to recharge them before they fall entirely and the protections your mother laid fail,” the professor explained gently, “We will need every advantage we can get, and a little more protection for you can never hurt.”

“Agreed,” Clarus announced from his right.

Harry opened his mouth in disbelief, shaking his head, “I - I can’t just _leave_ them!” he blurted, gesturing helplessly at them, “That’s not fair to them!”

“They will be fine at Hogwarts, Harry,” the professor assured them only for him to shake his head.

“No, they won’t. Professor they don’t - I didn’t explain everything to them, they don’t know about the war or our laws or _anything_. They’re my responsibility until we can get them home,” he declared firmly, taking several steps around the old man to stand protectively in front of them. “They took care of me, it’s the _least_ I can do.”

  
  


* * *

  
  


Well, Cor looked like he was planning his marriage vows, Clarus decided with distant exasperated humour. He had long grown used to the swordsman’s brain crippling interest in the hunter, and then outright infuriated with it once the amusement wore off and frustration set in as the two acted like - well like _teenagers_. 

Acting like teenagers was a hundred percent more preferable to the stony professional deference Cor had treated him with in the week since they left. All yes-sir’s, and no-sir’s, saluting, standing to attention or sitting stiff-backed hands on his knees, he didn’t carve any wood, he didn’t back-chat, he didn’t _talk_. The only one in the Retinue he spoke to without any of the military starch ironed into his spine was Cid, and never in front of anyone else when he knew they were there, for the rest of them, he treated them like the most anal retentive SO in existence. One hundred percent protocol, one hundred percent professionalism, and nothing else.

It didn’t just kill the mood of their group, it took it out back, slaughtered it, set it on fire, and then pissed away the smoking remains.

Finding Harry in that icecave, having Cor snarl at him when he went to pick the hunter up was more reliving than Clarus would ever admit to. Watching his young friend come back to _life_ and actually interact with them was worth the headache of discovering his magic, of the sudden stomach turning horror and _shame_ that rose up in the pit of his stomach like an iron fist. Harry had magic. Cor admitted to having seen him use _Holy_ to tear a mindflayer in half the night before they rescued that hunter in Longwythe, he left the camp after a nightmare to get some air and Cor had followed him to make sure he was alright and saw it. That he knew the hunter had been the one to recharge at least _two_ of the doors instead of Kimya because why else would he be in the Greyshire Grotto suffering from Stasis so severe it looked like hypothermia to them?

Clarus had to get to grips with the fact that he had choked a member of a family he had sworn on his life, on his honour, and his future children to, to protect. That he had thought the worst of him, reported unfavourably back to the Crown City of him, and then driven him away from their camp all because he wasn’t what Clarus wanted or respected, because Cor had known but respectfully kept his secrets while doing _his damn job_ in making sure said Royal was kept safe. 

And now here he was, stood in front of them, refusing to leave them, and arguing with the man he respected most in this world and _their world_.

He still wished Cor would be… less gross about it. 

Teenagers in love were disgusting.

The Professor was shaking his head, “Harry, my dear boy, they cannot go with you. Your relatives simply do not have the _space_ for them all. Not to mention His Highness would perhaps be more comfortable at Hogwarts than your Aunt’s spare bedroom?” he said with humour, smiling at Regis as if to invite him to join in the joke.

Regis did not, “I would love to meet young Harry’s relatives. As for comfort, if there is not a hotel near-by then there will be no difference to the last several months if we sleep in the tent,” he declared cheerfully.

Harry was looking shifty, in that _exact_ way Regis used to when he desperately wanted to hide something. “Actually, Professor Dumbledore has a point. There _isn’t_ enough space, and out here, it is illegal if someone set up a tent in the park and camped out. Surrey is close enough to London to have a lot of homeless people and the housewives get weird about them being in the residential areas. Not to mention that if I’m stuck at the Dursleys’ you may miss Fawkes. If you’re here, Professor Dumbledore can arrange to send you home as soon as possible and you won’t worry anyone.”

Nice try. Very logical. Not gunna happen.

Clarus ignored him, “Given what we have been told regarding your civil war and the people after Harry, as of this moment our presence here is unknown and of little to no importance to the conflict. However, we are all combat trained and willing to protect him, this will free up those you would station around Harry for his protection to work in other ways.”

The hunter was looking increasingly frazzled, “My Aunt would never let you all in the house.”

Weskham’s smile was benign, the exact same one he often flashed when filleting something for dinner, “I am sure there are near-by hotels able to accommodate the majority of our number.”

He dragged his hand through his hair, “We don’t take gil! You don’t have any currency anyone WILL accept!” he blurted which _did_ give them pause. “And no, there’s no hunter’s association here! You can’t just get a job without papers, without identification or licence or - or a _tax code!_”

Really? His culture was advanced enough for tax codes? Not even the rest of Lucis outside the Crown City had such things. Huh. 

Clarus turned to the youngest of their group, “Staff Sergeant Leonis, I am reassigning you to Harry Potter’s protection detail,” he declared, “Circumstances as they are, His Royal Highness is under significantly less threat at present than prior, as his Shield I will retake my former duties as close protection.”

Cor saluted, “Yes sir.”

Harry flailed, “No! No - no! Absolutely not!” he spluttered in alarm as the swordsman marched away from Regis to stand at ease behind him. The hunter scooted away and looked at Clarus accusingly as he waved an arm at Cor, “You can’t just - do I not get a say in this?!” he spluttered furiously.

Dumbledore rubbed his chin, “Indeed. I must protest as well. The location of young Harry’s relatives is a closely guarded secret. The wards are very weak right now, it would not take much for them to fail.”

“All the more reason for trained bodyguards then,” Regis declared with a pointed look before turning to Weskham, “Lord Armaugh, you are to act as Staff Sergeant Leonis’ second and support for the duration of this separation. Master Sophiar will be needed here to tend to the Regalia, and I would like someone with a more diplomatic approach to have eyes upon the situation.” 

Translation: He wanted proof that Harry’s guardians were unfit and didn’t trust Cid not to kill them and hide the bodies before hand. Also so that Cor would keep his hands to himself (not that Clarus thought it would be a problem, Cor had been, if nothing else, absolutely willing to go at whatever glacial speed Harry was comfortable with. The kid definitely had more patience than he did and Clarus would forever respect him for that, even if he thought his taste in men was messed up. Sure Harry was cute and all, but he was a punk).

Harry grit his teeth, “I said no. I don’t need a bodyguard!”

Cid scoffed, “Y’all jest woke up from a four day Stasis coma. Yer shakin’ like a leaf, an’ y’all nearly collapsed on th’stairs up ‘ere.”

The Professor jerked, “A coma?” he echoed.

The hunter shook his head, “It’s nothing, just magical exhaustion!” he refuted.

  
  


* * *

  
  


Cor did not like Dumbledore.

He wasn't sure what it was about the old man but he didn't like the way he looked at Regis, at Harry, at _him_ either. But then again, he had never liked anyone looking down on him for any reason, and the way he spoke to Regis put not only his back up but also everyone else's, then there was the _proprietary _way he spoke to Harry. He was honestly surprised Weskham hadn't discreetly stepped on his foot and told him to stop bristling like a cat.

He would have had to take his own advise first.

Still.

Cid had a very good point, one that managed to break everything up and eventually saw them down to the school’s Hospital Wing (this was Harry’s school? No wonder he was.... Weird about some stuff).

Getting down there was slower than getting to the Headmaster's office, and not just because they weren't running anymore. Without adrenaline to prop him up, stasis was making Harry flag, badly. But he was, if nothing else, _painfully_ stubborn about continuing without assistance. Sometimes Cor wished the hunter was a little less proud and a little more willing to accept help, even if it was that stubborn determination that grabbed him by the nose first (he said first, it was just the first thing he positively identified as liking about him specifically, the pretty face grabbed him first and he wasn't going to deny it).

Harry did take the lead eventually, once they were on the right floor and he didn't have to struggle down any more flights of stairs. Apparently, despite not being here for months, he still knew his way around this insane castle whose staircases changed daily, if not _hourly_ at that. He quietly pointed things out as they went, voice rising and falling with the exhaustion he was trying to ignore as he pointed out the apestry of the dragon that had a secret passageway to the sixth floor behind it, that suit of armour would spend Thursdays on the fifth floor and was willing to escort lost students where they needed to go, but the suit of armour next to it with the mace would take you straight to the dungeons if you tried. Oh, that gated off swamp was made by Ron's older brothers, Fred and George, last year when they held an all out prank-war rebellion against the Minister's under-secretary. Professor Flitwick kept that section of it as an example of their fantastic spell work. The scratches on the floor here were from when Peeves dropped a chandelier in the same prank war, and over there is -

If it had been anyone else, Cor would have put money on them passing out before they reached where-ever it was they were supposed to be going, but, in true Harry fashion, they reached the Hospital Wing before his knees buckled.

Madam Pomfrey was nothing like Cor pictured her.

She was nothing like the army medics either.

She was a small woman in an old fashioned nurse's frock, her black hair pulled back out of the way under a stark white hat, her blindingly white apron tied around her mint-green dress? Robe? Dress. She was perhaps Cid's age, probably older, with a stern face currently creased with concentration as she rubbed some manner of foul looking greasy ointment onto a thirteen year old's swollen hands, his skin livid red and covered in boils and sores. So much so they looked like they were wearing a pair of gnarled knobbly red gloves.

Harry paused when he saw the scene, leaning heavily against the door. “Oh. Dennis. Did you have an accident in potions again?” he asked almost faintly, making the blond child jerk and look up in surprise along with the nurse whose face went slack.

“HARRY!” the boy tore himself free from the nurse and barrelled into the hunter at full speed, throwing his arms around him. Both Cor and Weskham crashed into the pair to stop them from going down. “YOU'RE ALIVE! YOU'RE OKAY!!”

“Mister Creevey!” the nurse blustered hurrying over, “That's enough! Mister potter may very well be injured, release him this instant!” she commanded as the blond haired boy recoiled.

“Oh no! Harry are you alright? They didn't hurt you, did they? Ginny wouldn't tell us _anything_ about what happened!”

“I'm fine,” Harry promised, sagging into Cor's grasp, the soldier throwing a pointed look at the nurse and then another one to the beds. She was quick to point at one of the three on the left.

“He's just exhausted, kiddo,” Clarus reassured gently, patting the boy's shoulder as Cor half walked, half carried the hunter to the indicated bed. “You one of his friends?” he asked, smiling and trying to keep it friendly while Cor got the grey looking teenager to sit down as the woman hurried over, pulling out a wooden stick from her paron pockets.

“Y-yea. Who are you guys?” the kid demanded, straightening his shoulders and eyeing them with a mixture of deep suspicion and trepidation.

“Also friends. They're alright, Dennis,” Harry called over before looking up at the woman, “I'm okay Madam Pomfrey, just tired.”

“I will be the judge of that, Mister Potter,” she declared primly, “After the numerous incidents you have ended up under my tender care for, I will absolutely never take your word for it.”

Cor watched absently even as he listened to little Dennis with half an ear. Harry sat quietly on the bed, too tired to argue or cause mischief as the nurse checked him over. He would likely be asleep within five minutes of getting horizontal. Cor had seen enough Royal Guard and felt Stasis himself enough to know. Dennis was yipping in excitement over meeting real-life magical royalty and how he should have known Harry was the kind of person who would go on adventures with royalty – which begged the question of why he would think something like that to the rest of them.

“He didn't say?” Dennis gushed in surprise, “Harry led a student rebellion against the Under-Secretary last year! He taught all of us combat magic even though it was illegal. According to Ginny he got the highest OWL score in the whole country for Defence Against the Dark Arts in three hundred years, and everyone else who was in the DA scored Outstandings on our end of year exams, even me!”

Cor frowned, “Harry said he was a civilian, without military training,” he interjected, glancing quickly at the hunter who – yep, practically sleeping upright and now being bundled up into the bed by the nurse.

Dennis shook his head, “Child soldiers are illegal. Minimum age of requirement is eighteen. You can join the _cadets_ at fifteen like my cousin Andrew did but yeah, no army. Harry's had even less training than me really if you think about it – I mean, I got to learn from _him_. Harry just had people trying to kill him all the time so he had to figure it out himself. Is he okay, Madam Pomfrey?” he asked, somehow babbling all that without taking a breath before scuttling around Clarus and Cor to approach the nurse.

“He will be fine, Mister Creevey. Just a spell of magical exhaustion. I imagine he will be up and at it come dinner time,” the woman announced briskly before pointing him to the bed he'd been sat on previously. “Now, let's finish with your hands and I will speak to these fine gentlemen while you go back to _class_, Yes Mister Creevey, _Class_. No running back to Gryffindor Tower to tell all your housemates about Mister Potter's return. He needs _rest_. If I catch any lions around my Hospital Wing without a reason to be here, I will have you all in here scrubbing bedpans without magic, am I clear?” she threatened sternly.

“Yes ma'am,” the blond muttered meekly, presenting his now significantly smoother hands to her for another ointment application.

* * *

Madam Poppy Pomfrey, Medi-witch, Hogwarts school nurse, Ravenclaw alumni, was a fountain of information for just about everything _except_ Harry's medical history. Weskham was getting more than a little frustrated that his questioning, no matter how subtle or round about, would not yield anything regarding their suspicions of abuse from his relatives. He wanted an idea of what they would be walking into before they walked into it, Cor wanted to know what he would be protecting his charge from, Weskham wanted to know what angle of defence and attack he should be taking – was it physical, verbal, mental, neglect, _sexual?_ That was a chilling possibility with Harry's complete touch aversion and his admission that same-sex relations were considered illegal. Threatening a child with the police if they find out they were involved with someone of the same gender would be a neat and tidy way of terrifying them into compliance and silence.

Cor had climbed into the bed with Harry, ignoring the woman's sharp look until she noticed the sleeping teenager burrow into his side like a heat-seeking rocket as Cor summoned another blanket from the armiger to tuck around him. At which point she was all sly smiles and girlish tittering to the amusement of the Retinue.

Amusement that turned to alarm when the Hospital Wing doors slammed open, a dark haired man in leather trousers and a shirt bursting in, “Harry?! Where is he?! Is he alright?! Poppy!” he babbled frantically, making a beeline for the nurse.

“Professor Black, shhh!! This is a Hospital Wing!” she scolded sharply, before her expression softened as he practically vibrated in front of her in overwrought silence, “Your godson is fine. Exhausted, but in good health. He is _sleeping_ so I'll thank you to keep the noise down,” she added stringently before gesturing to where Harry was curled up against Cor's side, the teenager now looking as though he would have liked to be _anywhere_ but where he was currently sitting.

“D-Dad?!” Regis spluttered once he finally got his mouth working, goggling at the man wearing his father's face – no, very much _like_ his father's face but.... younger. Younger and with slightly sharper bone-structure, but there was no denying that this man looked almost identical.

He jerked like someone had jabbed him in the spine and looked over at Regis in confusion, “Reggie?” he spluttered, only to shake his head, “No – no, you're dead, what the hell?” he whined plaintively. Then Regis' words sunk in, “Da- no! I'm – why do you look like my little brother? Who are you? And who the hell are _you?!_” he added darkly, turning to scowl at Cor, or more specifically at the arm he had around the sleeping hunter.

“We could ask the same thing about you, bucko,” Clarus rumbled, folding his arms and glaring at him as he shifted his weight pointedly from where he was positioned between the two royals.

“M-me? I'm Sirius Black, Harry's my _godson_, who the fuck are you lot?” he demanded harshly before shaking his head, “No, fuck it, I don't care. You, move!” he commanded pointing at Cor.

Regis squeezed his eyes shut when he saw the exact second his friend decided to be stubborn.

“No.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And then I couldn't think of anything more to add but wanted to upload SOMETHING. So here you go. XDDD
> 
> There was going to be so much more, like meeting the Dursleys, the Weasleys, Sirius actually being able to demonstrate his A+ parenting, but I ran out of steam, and this was already fifteen pages. So enjoy what you've got. There will probably be a part 2 or 3 later on.

**Author's Note:**

> Hated You From Hello is fighting me so hard right now, so I thought I'd write some of my AU ideas in the hopes that it would get the bunny to talk to me again. All encouragement welcome.


End file.
